"You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic outside school," said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. "Forgot to mention it… slipped your mind, I daresay…"

He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. "Well, I’ve got news for you, boy… I’m locking you up… you’re never going back to that school… never… and if you try and magic yourself out—they’ll expel you!"

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry back upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Harry’s window. He himself fitted the cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day. They let Harry out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise he was locked in his room around the clock.

Two weeks later, the Dursleys were showing no sign of relenting and Harry couldn’t see any way out of his situation. He lay on his bed watching the sun sinking behind the bars on the window and wondered miserably what was going to happen to him.

What was the good of magicking himself out of his room if Hogwarts would expel him for doing it? Yet life at Privet Drive had reached an all-time low. Now the Dursleys knew they weren’t going to wake up as fruit bats, he had lost his only weapon. Dobby might have saved Harry from horrible happenings at Hogwarts, but the way things were going, he’d probably starve to death anyway.

The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia’s hand appeared, pushing a bowl of tinned soup into the room. Harry, whose insides were aching with hunger, jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone cold, but he drank half of it in one gulp. Then he crossed the room to Hedwig’s cage and tipped the soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave him a look of deep disgust.

"It’s no good turning your nose up at it, that’s all we’ve got," said Harry grimly.

He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than he had been before the soup.

Supposing he was still alive in another two weeks, what would happen if he didn’t turn up at Hogwarts? Would someone be sent to see why he hadn’t come back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let him go?

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach rumbling, mind spinning over the same unanswerable questions, Harry fell into an uneasy sleep.

He dreamed that he was on show in a zoo, with a card reading "Underage Wizard" attached to his cage. People goggled through the bars at him as he lay, starving and weak, on a bed of straw. He saw Dobby’s face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help, but Dobby called, "Harry Potter is safe there, sir!” and vanished.

He sat up from his bed in startlement at the popping sound, and realized that it had not been Dobby disappearing, but rather appearing. “No, Dobby!” he exclaimed, his breathing ragged. He was afraid that the house elf was about to disappear once again, as he had in his dream.

“What is they doing to Harry Potter sir?” the house elf asked, his tennis ball eyes wide in disbelief.

“Starving me!” he replied wearily. “I told you! I have to go back to Hogwarts, I can’t stay here!”

The house elf looked strangely thoughtful at this. “Harry Potter sir cannot be going back to Hogwarts now… but Harry Potter sir cannot be staying here.” Suddenly his face lit up. “Dobby knows!” With a grin, he said, “Good luck, Harry Potter sir!” and then snapped his fingers.

Harry felt like he was being compressed into a tunnel and struggled to breathe. Lights flashed by his eyes as he traveled through time and space.

THUMP.

Harry landed quite hard on his rear. After a moment to catch his breath, Harry stood up and looked around curiously. The room reminded him of an airport lounge he'd seen on TV, but he was fairly certain it hadn't been decorated in purple and orange. A number of wizarding folk were seated on fluffy armchairs drinking tea, while others were queuing at a desk. What really grabbed Harry's attention was a large sign hanging from the ceiling.

'The Ministry of International and Cross-Dimensional Travel and Immigration would like to sincerely welcome you to Britain!'

In smaller letters it continued.

'Today is 15 August, 1972.

The time is 9:24 am.

You are at the Arrivals Lounge of the London Magical Travel and Immigration Department (Latitude: 51° 31' 0 N, Longitude: 0° -6' 0 E ).

Please report to the reception desk for official checks and paperwork.'

Harry stared in shock. 1972!? How could it be 1972? That was twenty years ago!

“Excuse me, sir,” Harry asked a grubby man who was filling out paperwork in one of the armchairs, “what year is it?”

“Can't you read, sonny? 'Tis 1972. Lemme guess, playing 'round with yor papa's Time-Turner? Hmpfh. Kids these days...”

Harry sat down heavily. Why on earth would Dobby send him to 1972? It was a welcome change from the Dursley's though, Harry thought as a plate of food magically appeared in front of him. After two weeks of slowly starving to death at the Dursleys', the plate of roast beef sandwiches looked like heaven. He felt a lot more alive after the food. The weak, shaky feeling in his muscles was receding, his stomach felt pleasantly full, and even the dizziness and exhaustion that had been bothering him lately was improved. Now it was time to get this mess sorted out.

The witch at the reception desk looked at him curiously.

“Aren't you a little young to be traveling alone, child?”

“I didn't come here intentionally,” Harry said grumpily, “this insane house-elf sent me.”

“Oh.”

“So how do I get back to 1992?”

“... Are you trying to tell me that a house-elf has sent you back twenty years? Good Merlin!” She calmed down a little. “So how old were you in 1992?”

“Twelve.”

She looked at him oddly. “Well, child. The current Time-Turner technology is limited to six months into the future or past. Your house elf can't have used a timeturner, or any technology that I'm familiar with because your age would have decreased by twenty years in that case. I suppose if you were to purchase forty time turners you could theoretically return, but your body would be that of a thirty-two-year-old. Not to mention, Time-Turners are extraordinarily expensive.” She looked pointedly at the dirty rags he was wearing.

“So what can I do?”

“You'll just need to continue with life here. We will find you somewhere to stay, and a way to continue your education.”

After one large stack of paperwork and an interview with a social worker, Harry was ready to begin his new identity. The name 'Harry Potter' would still raise too many questions, as his paternal grandfather, Harry Potter Sr., was still alive and was unlikely to recognise Harry as a relative. He chose to now be 'Harry Miller'. It was comfortingly inconspicuous. Harry knew from his history text that Voldemort's reign of terror had begun six years ago, so he was not surprised to find that Child Services Division of the Ministry was overworked relocating offspring of arrested Death Eaters and war orphans. His new guardian was a short, snobby pureblood introduced only as 'Mr Wentworth'. Harry gathered that he worked for the Ministry and had a spare room. His boss had pressured him into taking in homeless children and he had reluctantly agreed to let Harry stay for the Hogwarts summer holidays.

/////////

It was curiously liberating to walk through Diagon Alley without attracting stares and whispers. Harry decided he could get used to this after all. He felt some of his anxiety fall away. Mr Wentworth continued to ignore him – he would be meeting Harry after the shopping to escort him back to the house. Harry pulled out his Hogwarts letter. It felt strange that he would be returning to Hogwarts for second year without knowing any of his classmates. The equipment list was quite similar though – only a few changes to the textbook list. The Ministry had supplied him with a small allowance for school supplies, and Harry could tell that it would be a challenge to be able to afford everything he needed. At least he was used to having secondhand belongings, though he did miss having access to the Potter vault at Gringotts (but not the fame associated with it). It occurred to him that he was free. Free of the Dursleys and free of Harry-Hunting now that Dudley's gang hadn't been born. He was confident that his meals would be provided thanks to the Ministry Orphan Fund, and most importantly, he was free of 'the-Boy-Who-Lived' and no longer Voldemort's favourite target. He was 'just Harry'; a twelve-year-old Hogwarts student that was free to live his life however he felt like.

“Thanks, Dobby,” he whispered with a smile.