Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the pleasant morning noise of Aunt Petunia opening and closing a cupboard downstairs. The pipes in the wall gave their usual morning knock as the mailman gave his friendly beep. Everything at privet drive was as it always looked, ordinary. thats only if your ordinary includes using your nephew as a slave though.

Harry brought his hand out from under his pillow and shook it a few times, trying to get rid of the pins and needles as quick as possible. He went to reach for his wand then remembered it was downstairs, locked in the cupboard with the rest of his school supplies. Uncle Vernon had taken the key after Harry's second evening home after Hedwig knocked a photograph off the mantelpiece on her way through the sitting room. Harry had tried to explain that he hadn't told her to do it, but his uncle had only become angrier, so he hadn't mentioned that the photograph had been perfectly all right after he picked it up.

Sitting up made him feel a little sick. He waited for it to pass before reaching for his glasses, then leaned towards the clock beside Dudley's broken racing car. Twenty past six. He might have nearly an hour before Aunt Petunia came looking for him, provided she hadn't thought of something which needed doing before breakfast.

He was twelve today.

Harry tried the number in his head while fitting his glasses over his ears. He didn't feel any older. His pyjama sleeves still covered part of his hands, one lens needed cleaning, and he had spent the last few minutes being frightened of an empty room. Last year, Hagrid had arrived with a cake and told him he was a wizard. He knew better than to expect anything like that again, but he couldn't quite stop himself wondering whether an owl might come before breakfast.

Hedwig watched him from her cage by the window.

"Morning," he whispered, going over to her. "It's my birthday. You remembered, didn't you?"

She stepped along her perch and peered at him through the bars. Harry put a finger against them, smiling when she rubbed the side of her head against it.

"All right, you can have some of my toast. If I get any." He scratched gently where he could reach. "I know. You don't like the burnt bits. I'll try and get you a good bit."

He stayed beside her for a moment before straightening. The bruise above his left hip hurt when he did, and he had to rest his hand on the window ledge until it eased. It had been yellow yesterday; he had thought that meant it would stop hurting soon, but apparently he would have to be careful for another day or two.

Drawing back the curtain, Harry looked out across the houses. There were pigeons on a television aerial opposite and a blackbird pulling something out of the neighbour's lawn. Farther along the street, a man in a dressing gown collected a newspaper from his front step, then went inside. Harry watched the empty stretch of sky above the roof for a while, listening for wings even after Aunt Petunia put the kettle on.

He had stopped expecting a whole flock. Draco only needed to send one owl, and Neville could probably ask his gran if he wanted to write. Ron might have decided that giving Harry his address had been enough friendliness for one train journey. They hadn't been getting on for very long before the holidays, after all.

But Draco had said she'd write.

Harry rested his fingertips against the peeling paint beneath the window catch. The first morning home, he had written two pages before breakfast and spent most of the second crossing things out. He hadn't known whether to put Dear Draco or Dear Malfee, which had seemed a silly thing to get stuck on when he had so much to tell her. In the end he had used Malfee, because it reminded him of her smiling on the platform.

He hadn't mentioned the kiss. He had got as far as I liked before worrying she might think he meant the book, then tried About the station and decided that sounded as though something had gone wrong there. After reading both attempts several times, he had put them beneath his mattress with the spoiled sheets of parchment. The letter he actually sent had been ordinary: he had arrived safely, he had put the album away, and he wanted her to thank her mother for him.

Perhaps she had wanted him to say something else. Perhaps she had been embarrassed afterwards, or thought he hadn't liked it. Harry wished he had simply told her, although he couldn't imagine writing it now, after so many weeks without a reply.

He turned away from the window. His schoolbooks occupied the top of the old chest of drawers, behind a plastic dinosaur with one leg missing. Aunt Petunia had allowed him to keep those upstairs after he explained that there would be more work next year, though she had made him promise that nothing in the Herbology book would get out. Harry hadn't known whether she was serious, so he had promised without trying to explain about the pictures.

The storybook was beneath his pillow. He took it out, checked that the cover hadn't bent in the night and put it beside the dinosaur. He had finished it three days after getting home, when the wizard's house finally returned to its proper place. The gatepost had made him apologise first. Harry had liked that part best and had written to tell Draco, imagining her arguing that the wizard should have apologised much sooner.

She hadn't answered that letter either. He touched the crooked bird sticking out from the last page, then closed the book carefully before the bookmark could slip.

Downstairs, a chair scraped across the kitchen floor.

"Boy! Are you getting up or not?"

Harry looked at the clock. He had only had about ten minutes.

"Coming!" he called, then winced at how loudly it came out. He dressed quickly in the cleanest of Dudley's old shirts, pulling it down to make sure it covered his hip. The short sleeves didn't cover the marks on his upper arm, though, and he spent a moment holding his arm in different positions before giving up and reaching for the thin jumper on the back of the chair.

It was going to be hot again. He could take it off in his room later, and if he kept out of Dudley's way, perhaps nobody would ask why he was wearing it. After checking Hedwig's water, Harry pushed his glasses into place and went downstairs.

Uncle Vernon sat at the kitchen table in a striped shirt with its collar open. A newspaper lay beside his plate, folded to the business pages, but he was studying a smaller piece of paper and moving his lips as he read. Aunt Petunia stood at the cooker, while Dudley occupied two chairs: one for himself and one for the foot he said Harry had injured by leaving a bucket near the back door. He hadn't seemed to have any trouble getting downstairs when his favourite programme started.

"About time," Uncle Vernon said. "Your aunt's got enough to do without fetching you out of bed. Get the plates."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Harry took the three plates from the draining board, then found his own beneath a chipped saucer in the cupboard. The smell of bacon made him hungry enough to feel sick again. He put his plate at the place nearest the sink and went back for the cutlery, hoping there might be a little left once everyone else had been served.

"Not that knife," Aunt Petunia said over her shoulder. "The matching ones. I've told you which drawer they're in."

"Sorry. I thought these were the ones you meant."

He exchanged it without waiting for an answer. Dudley watched him over his glass, then looked at the jumper.

"Why've you got that on? It's boiling."

Harry tugged the cuff down over his wrist. "I was cold when I got up."

"Well, you're not now. Take it off, then."

"In a minute. Can you move your elbow? I need to put that there."

Dudley shifted just enough to make Harry reach round him. Harry set the fork down carefully, aware that Uncle Vernon had stopped reading to watch them, and went to fetch the spoons before his cousin could say anything else.

Aunt Petunia brought over the frying pan, serving Uncle Vernon first and Dudley next. Dudley asked for another piece of bacon and was given it after explaining that he needed a proper breakfast if he was going to help that evening. Harry waited until his aunt had served herself before sitting down. There were two pieces of toast beside his plate, one rather darker than the other. He chose that one first so he could keep the better bit for Hedwig.

"Now," Uncle Vernon said, spreading his paper flat against the table. "Tonight. I want everybody clear about what they're doing."

Dudley lowered his glass and took his foot off the spare chair. He had been practising for tonight since Tuesday, when Uncle Vernon brought home a new tie and told them about Mr Mason. Mr Mason owned a building company, which meant he might buy a great many drills from Uncle Vernon if the evening went well. There had also been talk of a conservatory. Harry wasn't certain how much money a conservatory cost, but it seemed to have made this dinner more important than anything else that had happened all summer.

"They arrive at seven," Uncle Vernon continued. "Petunia, you'll answer the door. I'll be in the drawing room. Dudley, what will you say?"

"I'll ask if they had a nice journey," Dudley said. "And I'll take their coats."

"Good lad. And Mrs Mason?"

Dudley sat a little straighter. "I'll tell her she looks lovely. Mum said to say it when she takes her coat off."

"That's right, darling," Aunt Petunia said. "And remember your nice smile."

"Naturally, though," Uncle Vernon added. "We don't want her thinking you've learnt it. Try it once more."

Dudley looked towards the empty doorway, put on a broad smile and said, rather loudly, "Don't you look lovely, Mrs Mason."

Harry bent over his plate. He could imagine Dudley saying it to one of the teachers at his school and getting the same pleased look from Aunt Petunia afterwards. A small laugh nearly escaped him, and he tried to hide it by taking another bite.

"Something funny?" Uncle Vernon asked.

Harry swallowed too quickly. The toast caught in his throat, and he had to reach for his cup before he could answer.

"No. Sorry, I wasn't—"

"Because this matters. Mr Mason has contracts coming up which could be extremely valuable, and I won't have the evening ruined by you carrying on."

"I won't. I know I'm meant to stay upstairs."

Uncle Vernon watched him for a moment before tapping the corner of the paper against the table.

"And that's where you'll remain. No wandering down because you've thought of something you want. No noise from that bird, and none of your tricks. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, but his uncle kept looking at him until he answered aloud.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon. I'll keep quiet."

"And if they ask about you?" Aunt Petunia put in.

He glanced at her. They had gone through this before, but the answer sometimes changed depending on who was visiting. "You said I'm not here. They don't need to know about me."

"Exactly," Uncle Vernon said. "So let's have an evening without any unpleasant surprises."

"I can't do magic outside school anyway," Harry said. "I've told you. They'd find out if I did."

He wished he hadn't added the last part. Dudley was smiling into his glass, and Uncle Vernon had begun folding his paper with slow, deliberate care.

"Then there ought to be no difficulty," his uncle said. "Unless you've been telling us lies."

"I haven't. It says so on the paper they gave us."

"We'll see."

Harry picked up his remaining toast so he wouldn't try to explain again. Uncle Vernon continued watching him until Aunt Petunia asked whether the good wine glasses needed another wash, and the conversation moved back to the dinner.

He could have reminded them about his birthday then. Everybody was still at the table, and there had been a pause while Aunt Petunia went to look at the glasses. Harry opened his mouth, then looked down at his plate instead. His aunt knew when his birthday was; she had written it on school forms for years. Saying it aloud wouldn't make her want to celebrate it.

"You can get the garden done before lunch," she told him. "The beds by the fence, then the roses. Sweep up properly afterwards. I don't want bits coming into the house."

"All right. Do you want the front step done as well?"

"Of course I do. Look at the state of it."

Harry nodded and finished his tea. Dudley had pushed his plate away with a rind of bacon beside the last piece of toast, and Harry looked at it for a moment before getting up to clear the table. He had stacked two plates when Uncle Vernon spoke sharply.

"Leave mine. I haven't finished."

Harry stopped with his hand halfway across the table, his shoulder already drawn up towards his ear. For a second he could only watch the hand beside Uncle Vernon's plate. Then his uncle picked up the newspaper and frowned at him.

"Well? Put the kettle on."

"Sorry. I thought you had."

He turned towards the sink, keeping hold of the plates until he could set them down safely. Behind him, Dudley began his greeting again, and Aunt Petunia told him how nicely he was doing it.

By eleven, the sun had moved far enough round the fence that Harry couldn't find a comfortable place to kneel. He worked his small fork beneath a weed whose root kept breaking, trying to reach the end without disturbing Aunt Petunia's roses. Dry earth gathered beneath his fingernails, and the waistband of his trousers rubbed his hip whenever he stretched too far, so he had begun moving along the bed on his knees instead.

The jumper was making him miserable. He pushed its sleeves up while Aunt Petunia was indoors, then hurriedly pulled them down when the kitchen window opened.

"Mind the flowers," she called. "That one isn't a weed."

Harry stopped with the fork beneath a small green plant. It looked very like the others he had been pulling up, but he pressed the earth back round it.

"This one? Sorry. I couldn't see properly from here."

"You did this last year. You ought to know by now."

"I'll leave it."

He waited until the window shut before moving on. At Hogwarts he could have asked Neville, who remembered things about plants even when he couldn't remember where he had put his own bag. Harry could picture him kneeling beside the flowerbed, explaining which leaves to look at, and smiled before remembering that he hadn't heard from Neville either.

He glanced up at the sky above the fence, though he had checked it only a few minutes earlier.

After the first letter, he had asked Hedwig whether she was sure she had found the right house. She had been so offended that she refused the rest of his toast. He hadn't asked again after the third. She came back tired and cross, without a reply, and once with string still tangled round her leg but no parchment attached. Harry didn't know whether somebody had taken the letter, or whether she had lost it on the way home.

He had imagined a great many other things it might mean. Most involved Draco reading his letters and wishing he would stop sending them, although he couldn't make that fit with the girl he knew. She had never been shy about telling him when he was being annoying. If she didn't want to write, surely she could just say so.

Thinking that sometimes helped, until another morning came and there was still nothing at the window. Mrs Malfoy hadn't answered the separate note he had sent thanking her for coming to the hospital, either. Harry worried he had thanked her too often, or written something which sounded rude without knowing it.

By the fourth letter to Draco, he had stopped writing about the book and asked whether she was all right. He had put You said you'd write at first, stared at it for a long time, then crossed it out and written You don't have to answer quickly instead. That had been nearly three weeks ago.

A shadow fell across his hands. Harry looked up so quickly that the fork slipped sideways in the soil, but it was only Dudley, carrying a bowl of something cold and pink. He stood on the edge of the path with both feet on the ground.

"Mum says you haven't done the step. You're meant to have done it ages ago."

"I've still got these to do." Harry pointed to the last part of the bed. "I'll do the step after. Can you tell her?"

"Tell her yourself. I'm not going back in yet."

Dudley scraped his spoon round the bowl, watching while Harry felt beneath the loose earth for the root he had lost. Harry tried to ignore the sound of him eating and hoped he would get bored enough to leave.

"Still waiting for your post?" Dudley asked.

Harry kept his head down. "Why? Has something come?"

"No." Dudley grinned when Harry looked up. "It's only bills. Mum said."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I just wondered. You keep hanging about at the window." He took another spoonful. "Thought your friends were meant to send birds. What happened to all those?"

"I don't know. Perhaps they're busy."

"All of them? All summer?"

Harry pushed the fork into the earth. He didn't want to talk about this with Dudley, who would remember whatever he said and bring it up again when there were other people to hear. The root came free suddenly, shaking soil over his knees. He put it in the bucket and reached for another weed.

"It's your birthday, isn't it?" Dudley said.

For one stupid moment, Harry looked up again. Dudley saw it and smiled more broadly.

"You'd think they'd send you something today. If they were going to."

Harry pushed his glasses back with the cleanest part of his wrist. "They might not know. I don't think I told Neville when it was."

"I bet that girl knows."

His hand tightened on the fork. He didn't want Dudley talking about Draco, or asking him how he could be sure she remembered.

"I'm trying to get this done," he said. "Could you just leave me alone?"

"Mum said not to let you start anything tonight. That's why I remembered. You're not to come down, even if you think you're getting presents."

"I know. I've already told them I won't."

Dudley lingered, scraping the bottom of his bowl while Harry kept working. He asked once more when Harry was going to do the step, then wandered towards the house when he didn't get an answer.

Harry waited for the back door to shut before putting down the fork and sitting back on his heels. He had known there wouldn't be a cake. He had been telling himself that since he woke up, although he could still remember Hagrid opening the squashed box last year and looking worried about the icing. Harry hadn't cared what it looked like. Somebody had brought it for him; he had never had that before.

He wiped his face against his sleeve and picked up the fork again. There was still a little of the flowerbed left, and Aunt Petunia would come out if she saw him sitting there.

Aunt Petunia gave him a glass of water at the back door shortly after one. Harry drank most of it before she had finished telling him what to do next, grateful for the shade of the doorway and the cool glass against his palms.

"There's still that bit behind the shed," she said. "Do that before you put the tools away."

Harry lowered the glass. "I thought you wanted that left. You said not to pull it off the fence."

"The ivy, Harry. I mean the nettles underneath. Do try to listen."

"Oh. Right, I'll do those."

The kitchen smelled of warm pastry. On the counter behind her stood a bowl of washed strawberries, and he could see something cooling on a rack beside the cooker. He had been trying not to think about lunch, but now that he had stopped working it was difficult to think about anything else.

"Could I have something to eat first? Just a sandwich or something."

"You'll eat later. I'm in the middle of this, and I don't want you getting soil everywhere."

"I could wash my hands. I won't touch—"

"Later. Give me the glass if you've finished."

Harry handed it over. He had meant to ask if he could take some water up for Hedwig, but Aunt Petunia had turned back to the cooker, and he couldn't tell whether she had heard him properly about the sandwich. He stood there for another moment before fetching the gloves from beside the shed.

He worked more slowly after that. Standing up too quickly had begun to make the edges of things go dark, and he was frightened Aunt Petunia would look out just as he sat down. The ground behind the shed was shaded, at least. He crouched with his back against the wall and pulled the smaller nettles through an old pair of gloves which had split between two fingers. His proper gloves were locked in the trunk, though he wouldn't have wanted to spoil those on nettles anyway.

Draco had given him those gloves. He could remember her watching him put them on and asking whether they fitted, then checking for herself when he said they did. He hadn't known what to say when she told him they were his, and he wished he could remember whether he had thanked her properly. He thought he had. She had looked pleased afterwards.

Harry stopped with a nettle halfway out of the ground. He kept remembering things like that, trying to find the bit he might have misunderstood. It made it harder to believe she had simply forgotten him, but he didn't know what else to think when she hadn't answered anything he sent.

By four, the beds were clear, the step had been scrubbed and Harry had swept the path twice. Aunt Petunia inspected his work before allowing him to put the tools away, then called him into the kitchen to wash up the things she had used for the baking.

He stood at the sink with his sleeves pushed up, keeping his back towards the room. Flour had stuck to the inside of the mixing bowl, and he had to scrape at it with a wooden spoon before it loosened. The water was warm enough to sting the scratches on his fingers, but he was glad to be indoors. Once the pans were done, perhaps he would be allowed to go upstairs.

"Careful with that. I don't want it chipped."

Aunt Petunia was much closer than he had expected. Harry turned too quickly, knocking the spoon against the tap. The bowl slipped against the side of the sink, and she caught his wrist as he reached for it.

He went stiff. He knew she was only holding his wrist, but his free hand had already come up between them, still wet from the washing-up. Aunt Petunia stared at it, then let him go.

"Honestly. I was stopping you dropping it. Put it down if you can't hold it properly."

"Sorry," Harry said. "You made me jump. I didn't know you were there."

"I was standing right behind you. There's no need to make such a fuss."

He set the bowl on the draining board and pulled his sleeves down. Water ran into the cuffs, making the wool cling to his wrists. Aunt Petunia picked up the bowl and examined its rim before putting it on the table.

"Finish the pans, then go and wash. I don't want you coming through here covered in dirt when they arrive."

"I'll go straight up. Have I got to dry these as well?"

"Of course. And wipe the worktop."

Harry waited until she had moved away before opening and closing his hand beneath the water. There was nothing wrong with his wrist. He washed the pans, dried the worktop and put the spoons back into their proper drawer, checking each one before he shut it. Those were things he knew how to do. If he paid attention, there was no reason to get them wrong.

His supper was left beside the sink at half past five: bread, a little cheese and a cold potato. He ate the potato first, then tried to make the bread and cheese last while Aunt Petunia went through the cupboards looking for the dishes she needed. He still felt hungry when he finished. With tomorrow's breakfast so far away, he left a corner of bread beneath his thumb until she went to answer the telephone, then wrapped it in a clean piece of paper from the bread bag and slipped it into his pocket.

Upstairs, Harry shut his door without letting the latch click. For a moment he stood in the middle of the room, listening in case he was called back down. Hedwig rustled her feathers by the window, and he went to her with the glass of water he had brought up.

"Sorry I've been ages. Aunt Petunia kept finding things. Have you got enough?"

He bent to look at the little dish. Uncle Vernon had fastened a padlock through the cage door the previous week, after Hedwig brought Harry a mouse and Aunt Petunia found it on the landing. Explaining that it had been a present hadn't helped. Now he had to pour water between the bars, carefully tilting the glass so he didn't spill it over her perch. Hedwig pushed her beak into the stream before he had finished.

"Hang on, you'll get it up your nose," Harry murmured. He tipped the last of it into the dish and put down the glass. "There you go. I'll try and bring some more up before bed."

She drank, shook her head and settled farther along the perch. Harry stayed crouched beside the cage, looking at the small scratches he had made round the lock. He had tried a hairpin and the narrow end of a bent paperclip, but neither worked the way it did on television. After nearly an hour with the paperclip, all he had managed was to bend it until he couldn't get it into the lock any more.

"I'll have another go tomorrow," he told her. "There's got to be something I can use. I'll have a look when they're all downstairs."

Hedwig nibbled gently at his finger. He scratched her head for a little while, wishing he could give her something better than another promise, then got up to fetch the album.

It was hidden beneath a stack of old exercise books in the chest of drawers. Aunt Petunia had never liked him asking about his mother, and Harry was frightened of what she might do if she found a whole book of photographs. He only took it out when he was sure nobody would come in. Sitting on the bed, he kept the cover away from the damp patch his sleeve had left on the blanket and opened it to the first page.

His mother looked up. His father leaned into the picture and said something which made her push his shoulder, nearly sending him out of the frame. Harry watched until they had done it twice, then rested a finger on the edge of the page.

"I've done the garden," he said quietly. "You'd have liked it at Hogwarts. Everything grows much bigger there. I don't think you'd have to do as much weeding, either, if you could use a wand."

Lily laughed at something he couldn't hear. Harry watched her mouth move, trying to imagine what her laugh might have sounded like, then glanced towards the door. Nobody was there, but he lowered his voice anyway.

"Neville would know. About the plants, I mean. He's one of my friends. He's really good at Herbology."

His father grinned at somebody beyond the edge of the picture. Harry wished the photograph had included a little more of the garden, so he could see who was standing there with them. Perhaps there were other photographs somewhere with those people in them. He could ask Hagrid when he went back.

He wanted to tell his mother it was his birthday. That felt worse than almost saying it at breakfast, because she would have known. He couldn't imagine her forgetting, or being too busy to sit with him for a few minutes.

Harry turned the page before he could say it. In the next picture, Lily sat on a stone bench with a book open on her lap. She frowned at the person taking the photograph, then gave the little wave he had watched so many times that he knew exactly when it was coming.

"I've finished Draco's book," he told her. "I think I told you about that. The one with the house in it."

He looked towards the chest of drawers, where the bird stuck up from the cover at an angle. For a moment he could hear Draco reading in the hospital, putting on the wizard's offended voice and having to stop when Harry laughed. She had left the book on her chair so he could save her place for the next day.

Harry closed the album, keeping one hand on the cover. It was possible that people changed their minds when they went home. Draco had her mother, her books and a house full of things he had never seen. Perhaps he was much easier to forget when she wasn't seeing him every morning at breakfast.

But she had kissed him. He couldn't understand why she would have done that if she hadn't wanted to see him again.

Rubbing his forehead beneath his fringe, Harry put the album away and pulled an old exercise book from the bottom of the drawer. Dudley had used the first six pages and drawn a tank over the seventh, leaving enough clean paper at the back for several letters. Harry had been tearing it out a sheet at a time since his other things were locked away. His last two letters had been written in pencil, with the address copied from Mrs Malfoy's Christmas envelope. He had kept that carefully, even after deciding she probably didn't want another thank-you note.

He found the pencil beneath his mattress and settled on the bed with a clean sheet across his knees. Writing Dear Malfee was easy. He waited for a moment with the pencil above the next line, trying to think of something she would want to read.

He couldn't say that nothing had arrived without making it sound as though he was cross with her. He had already asked if she was all right, and asking whether she was coming back to Hogwarts might make her wonder why he was worrying about that. Lucius hadn't wanted her in Gryffindor. Perhaps he had found somewhere else for her to go, somewhere Harry wouldn't be able to see her.

Harry put down the pencil. If that had happened, she would have told him. She wouldn't just let him wait on the train without knowing.

A cupboard slammed downstairs. His hand jerked, sending the paper sliding off his knees, and he caught it before it reached the floor. For a few seconds he listened to Uncle Vernon moving about beneath him, then felt stupid for being frightened. His uncle wasn't even upstairs. He was probably looking for the wine.

The last time Harry had dropped something in front of him, it had been a plate. He had started apologising before it stopped breaking, but Uncle Vernon had struck him before he could fetch the broom. Harry looked at the pale edge of the bruise beneath his sleeve and pulled the cuff lower. He didn't want to be thinking about that while he wrote to Draco. He would think of something ordinary to tell her tomorrow.

"Boy! Get down here a moment!"

Harry slid the unfinished letter beneath the exercise book and stood before his uncle could shout again. The wrapped corner of bread fell out of his pocket; he put it on the desk without stopping to pick up the pencil and hurried to the door.

Uncle Vernon was at the foot of the stairs in his jacket, struggling to straighten his new tie. Aunt Petunia stood behind him with a cloth in one hand, looking towards the clock. Harry went down four steps and stopped above the bend, where his uncle could see him without his having to come all the way down.

"No more coming downstairs," Uncle Vernon said. "Not once they're here. Have you had your supper?"

"Yes. Aunt Petunia gave it to me."

"Then you don't need anything else. No trips to the bathroom while they're eating, no clattering about, and if that bird starts up, you'll quieten it."

Harry thought of Hedwig trying to turn round in her cage. She had been restless for days, but he couldn't explain that without making his uncle angry about the mouse again.

"I'll keep the door shut," he said. "She's usually quiet if nobody bothers her."

"Make certain she is. And take that jumper off, for heaven's sake. You'll make yourself ill."

"I'll change upstairs. I was just going to."

Uncle Vernon narrowed his eyes. Harry kept one hand over the other against the banister and waited, trying not to pull at his sleeve where his uncle could see.

"You'd better. And remember what we've discussed."

"Vernon, they'll be here any minute," Aunt Petunia said. "Come and let me do that tie. You've made it worse."

Harry stayed where he was while she straightened the knot, then went back up when both adults had moved into the sitting room. Dudley was waiting on the landing in a jacket which looked too tight across his shoulders. His hair had been combed flat, and the collar of his shirt was damp on one side.

"Don't forget," he whispered, stepping into Harry's way. "You're not here. Dad said."

"I heard him, Dudley. I was there."

"And you're not to listen at the door. I bet you were going to."

Harry was tired enough that he nearly tried to push past, but Dudley glanced towards the stairs, and he remembered how easily his cousin could bring Uncle Vernon back.

"I just want to go to my room," he said. "Can you move?"

Dudley leaned closer instead. "Nobody's going to know it's your birthday. Not even if you make a fuss."

For a moment Harry wanted to tell him to shut up. At Hogwarts, he might have said it. Draco would have been beside him, and even if Dudley had started shouting, a teacher would have asked what happened before deciding Harry was to blame.

Here he could hear his uncle clearing his throat downstairs.

"I'm not going to make a fuss," Harry said. "I've got to change."

"Dudley, darling!" Aunt Petunia called. "Come down now, please!"

Dudley hurried towards the stairs, then slowed when he remembered his foot. Harry waited until he had gone before turning towards his bedroom, relieved that he could finally shut the door and be left alone.

There was somebody sitting on his bed.

Harry stopped in the doorway with his hand still on the handle. At first he could only stare at the enormous green eyes above a small, pointed nose. The creature had ears which stuck out on either side of its narrow face and bare feet which didn't reach the floor. It sat with its hands folded in its lap, looking at Harry as though it had been waiting for him to come back.

He glanced towards the chest of drawers. The drawer with the album in it was shut, the storybook still stood beside the dinosaur, and Hedwig was watching the visitor from her perch. She hadn't made a sound. Harry wondered how long it had been there and whether it had heard him speaking to the photographs.

"Er... hello," he said, keeping his voice low. "How did you get in?"

The creature slid off the bed at once, its feet making hardly any sound when they touched the floor.

"Harry Potter," it said. "Dobby has found Harry Potter."

"Yes, that's me. But how did you—"

Harry stopped as Dudley called something from the foot of the stairs. He shut the door carefully and stayed beside it until his cousin had gone into the sitting room. When he turned back, the creature hadn't moved.

"Are you Dobby? Is that what you said?"

"Yes, sir. Dobby has been hoping to meet Harry Potter for a very long time. Dobby is very pleased, sir. Very pleased indeed."

Harry looked from him to the window. It was open only as far as he had left it that morning, and he was certain the bedroom door had been shut when he went downstairs. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore had sent him. Perhaps something had happened to Hedwig's letters and somebody had finally come to explain.

"Have you brought something for me? A letter?"

Dobby's ears gave a small movement. "A letter, sir?"

"From school. Or from someone who—" Harry stopped before saying Draco's name. "Just someone who knows me. I've been waiting for one."

"Dobby has come to speak to Harry Potter. Dobby has something very important to tell him."

"Oh. Right." Harry let go of the door handle. He hadn't realised how tightly he was holding it until his fingers began to hurt. "Well, you can tell me. As long as you're quiet."

Dobby looked round the room, his gaze moving over the broken racing car, the drawer with the missing handle and the plastic soldiers beside the skirting board. Harry shifted away from the door, feeling embarrassed by the mess even though most of it wasn't his. He would have put it all away if there had been anywhere else to put it.

The doorbell rang downstairs. Harry turned towards the sound, then took a hurried step closer to Dobby.

"You really will have to be quiet now. My aunt and uncle have got people round, and I'm not supposed to make any noise. They don't know you're here."

"No, sir. Of course, sir." Dobby began wringing his hands. "Dobby did not mean to cause Harry Potter trouble. Dobby should have thought before coming—"

"It's all right. They haven't heard you." Harry held up a hand when Dobby started to answer. "Just a second. Let me listen."

Aunt Petunia was greeting the Masons in a bright, cheerful voice Harry hardly recognised. He heard another woman answer, then Dudley asking about the journey. There was a pause before his compliment, and Harry found himself holding his breath until Mrs Mason laughed. Uncle Vernon must be pleased with that. Perhaps he would stay downstairs for a long time.

"Can you make yourself invisible?" Harry whispered. "Only if somebody comes up. You don't have to do it now."

"Dobby can leave without the door, sir. Harry Potter need not worry about hiding him."

"Without the window as well?"

Dobby nodded, though he still looked anxious.

Harry let out a breath. "Good. I didn't know. I've never met anyone like you before."

He waited until the voices had moved into the sitting room before leaving the door. Dobby stood beside the bed with his hands clasped together, watching every movement. He wore something which might once have been a pillowcase, with holes for his head and arms. One corner hung lower than the other, brushing his bare knee.

"You can sit down again," Harry said. "I didn't mean you had to get up."

Dobby stared at him, then towards the bed. Harry moved Dudley's old exercise book to the desk to make more room.

"Here, if you want. Unless you'd rather stand. I don't mind."

The elf pressed both hands over his mouth. For a moment Harry thought he had hurt himself, but then he saw how wet his eyes had become.

"Sir is asking Dobby to sit? Beside him?"

"Well, yes. I was going to sit too." Harry glanced uncertainly at the space he had cleared. "It's only a bed. Have I done something wrong?"

Dobby shook his head so hard that his ears flapped, then made a small, strangled noise behind his hands. Harry went towards him before it could become louder.

"Please don't cry. They'll hear you. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Sir has not upset Dobby." The words came out unsteadily. "Nobody asks Dobby to sit with them. Dobby was not expecting..."

He stopped to rub his eyes. Harry didn't know what to say. He knew what it felt like to stand beside a table and wait for somebody to decide whether he could have a chair, but he had never imagined being pleased enough to cry when they did. He sat at one end of the mattress and left the other clear, trying not to watch too closely while Dobby climbed onto it.

The creature perched on the edge with his knees together and his feet dangling. Harry waited until he had stopped wiping his face on the pillowcase before trying again.

"Do you work at Hogwarts? I thought you might have come from there, that's all."

"No, sir. Dobby is a house-elf."

Harry looked at him more carefully. Draco had mentioned house-elves among her explanations of things he ought to know, but he hadn't pictured somebody quite so small.

"Oh. I think my friend told me about those. Do you work in somebody's house, then?"

"Dobby serves a wizarding family, sir."

"Which family? Do I know them?"

Dobby went rigid. His gaze darted towards the lamp, and one hand rose from his knee. Harry caught the narrow wrist before he had quite worked out why, then felt the elf trying to pull away from him.

"Hang on. What are you doing?"

"Dobby must not speak of his family. Dobby is not supposed to be here, sir. Dobby has already said too much."

Harry looked at the lamp, then back at him. "Were you going to hit yourself with that?"

Dobby wouldn't meet his eyes. His fingers kept moving in Harry's grip, and Harry loosened it, suddenly worried he was hurting him.

"You don't have to tell me," he said quickly. "I only asked because you said you worked for someone. I didn't know it was a secret."

The elf lowered his hand to his lap. As he did, his eyes moved to the place where Harry's wet cuff had slipped back, leaving part of his arm bare. Harry let go and tugged the sleeve down at once.

"It's nothing," he muttered, though Dobby hadn't asked. "What was it you came for? You said there was something important."

Dobby looked towards the door, then at Hedwig's cage. His gaze stopped on the bread Harry had left on the desk, where the wrapping had fallen open beside the exercise book.

"Has Harry Potter eaten, sir?"

Harry felt his face growing hot. He reached for the bread and pushed it behind the book, although there was no point hiding it once Dobby had seen.

"That's from supper. I was saving it."

"For later, sir?"

"Yes. I might want it later." He pulled his hand back, annoyed with himself for sounding cross. "Why? Is there something wrong with it?"

"No, sir. Dobby only..."

The elf looked down, and Harry waited for him to finish. He didn't want to explain about the bread or the jumper. He wanted this visitor to tell him why he was here, before Uncle Vernon came upstairs and found somebody else who would get Harry into trouble simply by being in the room.

"Please," he said. "Can you just tell me what you came to say?"

Dobby lifted his head, clutching a fold of the pillowcase between his fingers.

"Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts. Not this year, sir. He must stay away."

Harry stared at him. From downstairs came a burst of laughter, with Uncle Vernon's voice louder than everybody else's. He waited for it to stop, certain he couldn't have heard Dobby properly.

"What do you mean, not go back? I have to. Term starts in September."

"Harry Potter must find somewhere else to be. There is danger at Hogwarts, sir. Dreadful things are being planned, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter be there when they happen."

Harry glanced round the room. His unfinished letter was on the bed beside him, the cage was locked, and the only photographs of his parents were hidden beneath Dudley's old schoolbooks. He had been counting the weeks until September. He didn't know what he was supposed to do if someone took that away as well.

"I'm going back," he said. "If there's something wrong, you need to tell the school. They won't just let it happen."

Dobby shook his head. Harry leaned towards him, trying to make him understand without raising his voice.

"What sort of things? Is somebody going to get hurt?"

The elf opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He pulled at the edge of the pillowcase until the material had twisted into a tight knot. Harry waited, looking once towards the door before turning back.

"You can tell me. I won't say it was you if you're worried about that."

"Dobby cannot, sir. Harry Potter must believe him. Dobby would not come all this way if it were not true."

"I don't even know you." Harry heard how unkind that sounded and tried again. "I mean, you haven't told me anything. You just came into my room and said I can't go back. How am I meant to know what to do?"

"Stay away, sir. Please. That is all Dobby asks."

"But where would I go? I can't stay here all year."

He hadn't meant to say that part. He looked down at the blanket, wishing he could take it back before Dobby asked him why, but the elf's eyes moved to his sleeve again and then away.

"There must be somewhere Harry Potter can be safe," Dobby said, much more quietly.

Harry swallowed. The word made him think of the common room, of opening the portrait hole and seeing Draco look up from their table. He had been frightened at Hogwarts too, but there were people there he could go to. He couldn't understand why Dobby thought leaving him in this bedroom was going to make anything better.

"Does Professor Dumbledore know?" he asked. "About whatever's going to happen?"

"Dobby does not think so, sir. But—"

"Then tell him. He'll help. You could go and see him now, couldn't you? If you can get in without using doors."

Dobby shook his head again, so miserably that Harry began to feel desperate.

"All right, not him. What about Professor McGonagall? She's my Head of House. We told her things last year, and she listened to us."

"Dobby is sure she is a good witch, sir. But Dobby cannot explain what he knows. He must not."

"You don't have to explain all of it. Just tell her what you told me. Tell her there's something dangerous."

"Then they will ask Dobby questions. They will want to know how Dobby knows, and where Dobby has heard—"

He broke off, pressing his lips together. His hand started towards his face, and Harry reached across the gap between them before he could strike himself.

"Don't. Please don't do that. I won't ask where you heard it."

Dobby let Harry lower his hand. For a little while they sat without speaking, listening to the muffled voices downstairs. Something clinked against a glass, and Hedwig shifted on her perch.

"You told me because you think I'll listen," Harry said at last. "Is that it?"

The elf nodded quickly. "Dobby hoped Harry Potter would understand. Dobby has heard how good Harry Potter is."

"But I can't fix anything if I stay here. And if it's dangerous at school, it's not just me there, is it?"

His voice had risen. Harry stopped and looked towards the door, listening until he was sure the people downstairs were still talking. When he turned back, Dobby was watching him with an expression he couldn't work out.

"My friends are going back," Harry whispered. "They don't know about this either. Someone needs to tell them."

"Harry Potter has friends he wishes to return to," Dobby said slowly.

"Of course I have. That's what I've been trying to say."

He thought of Draco sitting in class, not knowing there was anything wrong. Neville would be there too, and Ron, who had given Harry his address even after all their arguments. Harry had spent weeks wondering whether any of them still wanted to hear from him, but it hadn't stopped him wanting to see them again.

"If somebody was going to hurt your friend, you wouldn't just stay here, would you? You'd want to warn them."

Dobby's fingers worked against the cloth in his lap. "That is what Dobby is trying to do, sir."

Harry opened his mouth, then stopped. The elf was looking up at him so anxiously that he couldn't keep arguing as though Dobby wanted something bad to happen. He seemed frightened enough already.

"I know you're trying to help," Harry said. "But you can't ask me not to go back. I haven't seen any of them since June. I haven't even..."

He looked towards the window and let the sentence trail away. Dobby followed his gaze, then pressed his hands flat against his knees. Harry noticed the lamp was still on the bedside table, close enough for him to reach, and moved it to the other end. The cord caught round the corner; he untangled it carefully before sitting back down.

"Just tell me what you can," he said. "You don't have to hurt yourself. We'll think of something."

Dobby stayed still for a few seconds. Then he stood on the mattress, his thin legs trembling beneath the pillowcase, and Harry had to tilt his head to look at him.

"If Harry Potter promises not to return, Dobby can give him something. Something Harry Potter wants very much."

Harry's stomach tightened. "Give me what? What have you got?"

"Harry Potter should see it first, sir. Then perhaps he will understand."

"I'm not promising anything. Not until you've told me."

Dobby reached inside the loose fold of cloth at his side. Harry hadn't thought there could be room for anything in it, but the elf's hands came out holding a thick bundle of envelopes tied with string. One had a smudge of purple ink beside its seal. Another was folded from the sort of parchment Harry used at school, and several were thicker, their corners pressed together beneath the string.

Hedwig gave a sudden, furious screech. Harry hardly heard her. He was staring at the writing on the top envelope: tall, narrow letters, a straight line beneath his name and plenty of space left below the address. He had watched Draco write like that for most of the year, making lists, correcting his notes and once drawing a tiny scarf in the corner of a Potions essay while he tried not to laugh.

His name was on the front. Beneath it was the address of this house.

Harry got to his feet, almost knocking his glasses off as he tried to push them higher.

"Where did you get those?"

Dobby drew the bundle against his chest. "Harry Potter must promise first. Dobby knows that once he gives them—"

"Those are my letters. That's my name on them."

Harry reached out, but Dobby stepped back on the mattress, keeping them out of reach. Harry could see a second envelope beneath the first now, with the same handwriting pressed so hard into the parchment that the ink looked almost black. There were more underneath it. He tried to count them and couldn't see past the string.

"How long have you had them?" he asked. "Have you had them all summer?"

Dobby's ears lowered. He rubbed his thumb against a corner of the bundle, looking down at it instead of Harry.

"Dobby thought... if Harry Potter believed his friends had forgotten him, perhaps he would not wish to return. Dobby only wanted him to be safe, sir."

Harry stared at the envelopes. He remembered every morning at the window, every time he had asked Hedwig to try again. He had read over his own letters until he was sick of them, trying to find the thing which might have made Draco stop wanting to answer. He had gone over her face on the platform so often that he wasn't sure he remembered it properly any more.

And all that time, she had been writing to him.