"Boy! Who is it?" comes the demand from the living room, and Harry glances towards the door.

"Some school friends," Harry calls back to Uncle Vernon, "Don't worry, they're here to kidnap me." He says it in a casual, blasé tone, and the response he hears isn't entirely unexpected.

"WHAT-" Uncle Vernon seems to register the idea of Harry leaving the house, and Harry hears the armchair in the living room give a groan of protestation as his uncle sits himself back down in it. "Alright. Off you go." George snorts, following Harry up the stairs, and Harry runs up between him and Fred.

"How did you guys get here?" he asks, and Fred gives an easy shrug of his shoulders. Without robes draping loosely over them, Harry can see that the Weasley twins are actually quite well-muscled, especially around the arms, and he finds himself wondering if wizards have gyms. He can't really imagine Lucius Malfoy lifting dumbbells or doing push-ups, but maybe it's a bit like wearing jumpers, and only less serious wizards have them.

"Knight Bus," Fred answers, and he and George watch as Harry grabs his stuff together, neatly packing the few things that are left out into his trunk. "What, you not unpacked yet?"

"This is my cousin's second bedroom," Harry explains, not looking up from his stuff as he folds it up and chucks it inside. "The chest of drawers and the wardrobe aren't empty." Frowning, George pulls open the wardrobe, and he stares at the contents of the wardrobe. Inside is a messy pile of clothes Dudley had hated for whatever reason, as well as smaller toys and dishevelled packs of Pokémon trading cards. Dudley has asked for them, and they'd been bought for him, but the actual game proved to be too boring for him.

"I've heard of people having guest bedrooms," Fred says, leaning forwards and uncertainly giving a stuffed cat an uncertain poke. "But I've never heard of people having a second bedroom."

"Seems a bit unnecessary," George agrees.

"It's because he has so much stuff," Harry says, shaking his head as he pulls his trunk shut and latches it in place. "It just doesn't all fit in his bedroom."

"Your cousin?" Fred prompts, a slightly evil glint coming into his eye.

"Yeah," Harry answers, "And you're not meeting him." Fred's glint disappears, replaced with shining disappointment, but he doesn't bother to ask why Harry's not going to let him meet Dudley. Hedwig climbs neatly into her cage, settling herself in with a dignified ruffle of her feathers and a quiet hoot, and Harry hands her cage to George, but before he can lift up his trunk Fred takes it off the floor. "Fred, I can do that."

"Ah ah ah," George says scoldingly. "We're kidnapping you. That means we do the heavy lifting. You got all your stuff?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and as they come down the stairs, he sees Aunt Petunia in the hall, glaring at the Weasley twins with suspicion. "I'm going with Fred and George, so you guys can be rid of me. See you next summer."

"Hmph," is all Aunt Petunia says, and then she stalks off into the kitchen again. Harry puts out his hand for the Knight Bus, and he watches in excited awe as the bright purple monster of a vehicle comes roaring down the street. He'd seen the photos in An Introduction to The Wizarding World last year, but it's even more ridiculous in real life, and he grins at the conductor as they get on. Fred sets Harry's trunk down next to a brown armchair, but George keeps hold of Hedwig's cage.

"Back to the Burrow, if you would, Stan-my-man," Fred says brightly to the spotty conductor, who squints down at Harry. Harry is glad he hasn't had a haircut for a while - his hair covers his scar quite well.

"Who's that?" Stan demands.

"I'm Tom," Harry says with a straight face, ignoring Fred's snort as he drops himself onto a blue chaise long. The furniture on the Knight Bus is ridiculously mismatched, and as the bus roars fast along the winding roads, the chairs and sofas slide on the floor. It's fabulous, Harry decides.

"You a Muggle?" the conductor asks.

"Yeah," Harry says, "That's why I've got a wand in my hand, and why I'm not freaked out at all by the giant purple bus I'm on." The spotty conductor lets out an irritable huff of noise.

"Can't be too careful," he mutters, and he takes their sickles for the fare before walking down the bus.

"Bit of an idiot, isn't he?"

"Stan Shunpike, his name is," George says, "He was in the same year as Charlie. Charlie thought he was always a right pillock, mind. He was a Ravenclaw, but no one could ever figure out why." Harry laughs, holding tightly to the sides of his chair as it slides suddenly to the left.

"Thanks for this," Harry says seriously. "I think I would have gone mad if I'd been there any longer, not getting any post, and I've discovered why I'm not getting it, by the way. A house elf's been stealing it from me."

"What?" And with that, Harry tells them the whole strange conversation he'd had the night before, and the way the house elf had hurt himself, telling Harry he wasn't supposed to be there. By the time he's done with explaining what had happened, the three of them are stepping off the bus onto a dirt path, George carrying Harry's trunk and Fred cradling Hedwig's cage. Harry undoes it as they walk, and Hedwig flies out, circling in the air above them and stretching her wings.

"If he was hurting himself, he mustn't have had permission to be there," George says, shifting the trunk in his hands. "That's weird, Harry, really weird. Ask Dad about it when we get in, though." They make their way up the hill slowly, and when the house comes into sight, Harry's even more delighted than he was upon seeing the workings of the Knight Bus. The magical world is endlessly exciting, but it's things like these that truly make Harry happy.

"Your house is amazing," Harry says immediately.

"Yeah, tell that to our mum," Fred says, "She keeps complaining about it." As soon as they're inside, George sets a bowl of food out for Hedwig, and Fred turns on the hob, heating up a pan. "Bacon sarnies, eh, lads?"

"You two are really domestic when you're not at school, aren't you?" Harry asks, and George whistles under his breath. "Cooking, feeding the owl. I bet you do your own washing."

"Firstly, you have to do your own washing in this house, else you end up coming down the stairs in nothing but one of Dad's socks, a pair of Ginny's knickers and a leather vest of Bill's," George says, pulling butter out of a cupboard and beginning to slice bread. "Secondly, you're not to brag about our housekeeping skills."

"All the boys will be trying to get us as trophy wives," Fred agrees gravely, "We want them to love us for our bodies, Potter, not our incredible charisma or ability to cook banquets."

"When have either of you ever cooked a banquet?" comes a voice from the doorway, and Harry looks to see Molly Weasley, her hands on her hips as she looks between the three of us.

"When have you ever let us?" Fred asks, brandishing his spatula like a weapon. "We'd do a marvellous job."

"A marvellous job of turning all the guests colours, I'd expect," Molly says, and Fred shrugs his shoulders.

"That's what a banquet's all about, Mum." Harry laughs, and Mrs Weasley looks at him properly, beaming down at him.

"There you are, Harry. Fred and George said they were inviting you down for the day." Harry stares at her for a second, mutely.

"We didn't actually say a day," George says, and Mrs Weasley's head whips to stare at her son. "We didn't specify any time-frame, Mum. You did that."

"And you wouldn't send Harry back to his aunt and uncle, would you?" Fred asks, putting a bacon sandwich on the table in front of Harry. "Look at him, Mum, he's skin and bones - they barely feed him, and they've got him in his cousin's second bedroom. They didn't even care that we were taking him."

"Now, you can't, George, Fred- do they- you did let them know you were going, didn't you, Harry?" Mrs Weasley asks anxiously.

"They were quite glad to see the back of me, to be honest, Mrs Weasley," Harry admits, "But I didn't realize - if I'm an imposition I can just-"

"Oh, don't be silly," she says firmly, her worry fading away like a Vanished teaspoon. "You could never be an imposition, Harry. Do eat up now. Fred is right: you do look a bit skinny." Harry meets Fred's eyes over Mrs Weasley's shoulder, and the older boy gives him a thumbs up and mouths, "Spot on, Potter."

---

"Why do you never cook for me?" Ginny demands. She's still wearing a thick, pink dressing gown over some flannel pyjamas, and she crosses her arms tightly over her chest as she glares up at her older brother.

"Because you don't eat enough vegetables," Fred answers, "You should be digging in the garden, biting into raw potatoes and gnomes, like a healthy young person. That's what I did."

"You didn't do that!"

"I did so. Ask Mum, she's got pictures somewhere."

"I was alive, you pillock, I'd have seen you!"

"Oh, no, I only did this in the dead of night, when you were asleep. The potatoes are asleep then."

"Potatoes don't sleep!"

"I meant the gnomes." George moves his queenside pawn, and Harry shakes his head as he tries to think of a way to respond.

"Are they always like that?" Harry asks. Ginny had come downstairs about ten minutes ago, and hasn't actually noticed Harry yet, much to his relief. Not that he has anything against her - he hasn't met her yet - but Fred and George had implied she was a bit overly in love with the idea of the Boy Who Lived. She'd asked Fred to make her a bacon sandwich, which he'd immediately and dramatically refused.

"Nah," George answers. "Fred only goes into abstract silliness when Ginny's trying to get him to do stuff. It gets right on her nerves, it does. He'll make her a sandwich once she gets angry enough to leave the room." Harry smiles, telling his kingside rook to move.

"Is it nice? Having siblings? I grew up with Dudley, obviously, but it's not the same." The same jealousy he'd felt when complimenting Hermione's parents makes itself obvious in the pit of Harry's stomach, and he thinks of all the photos he has of his family, all his family who're dead and gone. Would he have siblings, if his mum and dad had lived? Would he have had a little brother, or a little sister?

"It's always been a big household," George admits. "It was Bill, then Charlie, then Percy, then me and Fred, then Ron, then little Ginevra. There's benefits, and there's problems. For example, we could form our own all Weasley Quidditch team, but it's hard to get hot water in the morning. It's easy to ask for homework help from an older sibling, but most of the time the bastard won't give it you."

"Speaking of homework help," Harry says, thinking of the Charms riddle, but George interrupts him.

"Oh, no, no, no. We're going to give you the full Weasley experience, Harry. You're the asker, I'm the bastard."

"Thanks, George," Harry says dryly.

"You're very welcome. Checkmate." Harry stares down at the board.

"Damn."

---

"Hi, Ginny," Harry says later as they all sit outside around a few wooden tables, enjoying the sunshine. "I'm Harry." He puts out his hand for her to shake, and she stares at it, her eyes horrifically wide, but when Fred nudges her she shakes it, offering an awkward, shy smile. Then, she runs off and into the kitchen, ostensibly to help Mrs Weasley with something.

"I shouldn't worry about it, Harry," Percy says, buttering his toast with an obsessive precision, "I think she's merely slightly awed by your, uh, celebrity, but she'll get used to it. She's horrible to the rest of us."

"That's true," Fred agrees. "She threw George down the stairs one summer when he threatened to cut off all her hair. The first bout of accidental magic we ever saw out of her, and she used it to try and kill one of us."

"Ah, that summer," George says, an expression of fond reminiscence on his face, "I still have the scars. She's a vicious girl, Harry. She'll come out of Hogwarts with severed heads, not trophies."

"You're not going to argue with that, Percy?" Harry asks lightly, and Percy looks up from his toast, apparently surprised to be addressed again. His smile is nice, Harry thinks, and he feels an odd twinge run through him as he watches the older boy draw his hand through his hair. In school, Percy is an officious perfectionist that barely ever talks to Harry if Hermione isn't present, but here he's an officious perfectionist who borders on friendly.

"Oh, I just have to hope none of the heads are mine, to be honest," Percy says lightly. "Of course, she won't be able to reach mine. Fred and George will have to buy step ladders." Fred gasps dramatically, clutching at his chest, and George does the same thing.

"You'd better not have been calling us short just now, Percival," George warns. "We'll kick you off the Quidditch team."

"I'm only on the Quidditch team as a favour to Oliver," Percy points out, pushing his glasses up his nose. "If you kick me out, it'll annoy him more than me." Fred sighs.

"He's right," he says mournfully. "The practices are bad enough as it is." Mrs Weasley comes out of the kitchen with Ginny in tow, then, setting a dozen levitating bowls and plates down on the table, and Harry stares in excited awe at the different things she sets down. There are two pies, a salad, a steaming dish of potatoes-

"This looks great, Mrs Weasley," Harry says.

"Thank you, Harry," she says, and she sits beside Harry. They're all sat around two mismatched tables, and none of the chairs match either, but the Weasleys' garden is huge and bright and decorated all over with flowers, vegetable patches and ornaments, and it's nice to eat outside like this. Mr Weasley runs out of the house, and then he stops short, peering at the table. Harry can see his lips moving as he counts the children he sees, and he tries to keep from laughing as Mrs Weasley says, "We're missing Ron, dear." Mr Weasley goes back to the house, and Harry can hear him yelling Ron's name up the stairs.

"He's sulking because you're here," Fred supplies. "He thinks inviting a poor, orphaned Slytherin to stay with us is a betrayal."

"Fred!" Mrs Weasley says. "Don't call him that."

"It's alright, he calls me much worse things at school," Harry says innocently, and he pretends not to see Fred's look of indignation as Mrs Weasley glares at him even harder.

"Well, you don't mind staying in Ron's room, do you, Harry?"

"Er-"

"Don't worry, Mum," George breaks in. "We've already cleared a space and put the spare bed for Harry in ours." Harry feels relief warm through him. He hopes Ron will calm down a little this summer, without Seamus and Dean to back him up, but he doesn't want to share a bedroom with him for the time being.

Ron lopes out of the house, sitting at the table next to Ginny, and Harry frowns at him. "Have you gotten taller?" he asks, trying not to sound as personally offended as he feels.

"Yeah," Ron replies, and George pats Harry's head.

"Don't worry, Harry. Maybe you'll be as tall as Flitwick one day."

"Shall we start?" Arthur says hurriedly, and Harry shakes George's hand off his hair, reaching for a piece of chicken.

---

"And this house elf's name was Dobby?" Arthur asks, scribbling down a messy note to himself on a piece of parchment. There's a deep, serious frown on his features, and he'd listened very carefully when Harry had explained the whole thing.

"Do you have like, a registry?" Harry asks, and Arthur shakes his head.

"No, the magical census only takes names of non-humanoid beings living in households, and house elves aren't registered at birth or death," Arthur says, shaking his head, "But I can ask some questions, and there are registries of house elf owners, with how many house elves they have in their possession."

"But he wasn't there on orders," Harry points out, "He kept hurting himself, punishing himself."

"I'm afraid house elves are only really thought about in relation to their owners, Harry," Arthur says quietly, giving a helpless shrug of his shoulders. "But I'll see about having someone get your post back for you, alright?" He gently pats Harry's shoulder, and Harry offers the other man a small smile.

"Thanks, Mr Weasley."

That night, Harry lies on the bed to the side of the room, listening to the quiet chatter of Fred and George as they pour over a set of books a complicated set of notes Harry doesn't even try to understand. So used as he is to the noise of the television downstairs as he tries to sleep, their conversation lulls him into an easy sleep.