The next morning, Aunt Petunia opens up the door to Harry's bedroom, and she stares down at him. Harry concentrates on the two books in front of him.

"What are you doing?" she asks stiffly.

"My Charms professor set us a riddle as a piece of extra homework. We get a mystery prize if can figure out the answer - you can't charm, conjure or do any spellwork if you expect an ingredient to be magically active in the right way in a potion. It's why you have to either prepare ingredients yourself or have a traditionally enchanted set of equipment to prep them for you: ingredients work in different magical ways, but they'd be tainted if you used a spell on them. The picture's just a love potion in a wooden bowl, and there's magic in it, and I can't figure out how." Harry had really just been talking aloud, and now Harry glances up, staring up at his Aunt Petunia. There's something pinched in the expression on her face, her lips pursed. There's a long, pregnant pause between them.

"Sorry," Harry says, "No m-word." Aunt Petunia shakes her head, as if drawing herself abruptly from some reverie - probably about dropping Harry out of a window - and her eyes focus on his face again.

"Vernon has a coworker coming for dinner this evening," she says stiffly, raising her chin and making her long neck look even longer. "You are to remain upstairs, and make no noise. We've not told him you live here, and you aren't to allow him to believe otherwise. You will be utterly silent." Harry stares at her.

"Uh, no, Aunt Petunia, I won't," he says, "Firstly, because I'm a human child, not your pet rabbit, and secondly, because it will benefit you more to tell him I exist. Tell him I'm your disadvantaged, orphaned nephew who the two of you took in out of the goodness of your hearts, and how my debilitating shyness, numerous disorders and extreme uncertainty of strangers leaves me unable to come out and say hello." Aunt Petunia seems to consider this for a moment, and then she looks appraisingly at Harry.

"You won't leave your room," she says firmly.

"I usually don't," he replies, and he lies back on the floor as he stares up at the ceiling. Michael Jackson is on the radio again, and Harry closes his eyes, not really listening to the lyrics of the song as he tries to figure out the little, written exercise. It looks like it should be so simple, but it isn't. A wooden bowl full of liquid, and the caption says that it's full of active magic, but potions aren't actively magical.

Harry groans, and presses his face into the carpet. He suspects Hermione and Draco have already got it, given that they're both at the top of their classes, and Harry can't even hope one of them will send him a clue in the post, because his post isn't coming. He's so bored, he can barely stand it, and he's doing his best not to just read all of his books in one go.

There's a loud pop, and Harry sighs, wondering what the Hell Dudley is doing next door, but then he turns his head, and he freezes where he lies on his back on the floor. There's a house elf in his bedroom. Harry stares at it, wondering for a moment if he'd left something at the school, but this house elf isn't wearing the Hogwarts uniform of an emblazoned tea-towel - it's wearing a grubby pillowcase that dwarfs its tiny form.

"Harry Potter," it proclaims in its sharp, squeaky voice, "Must not return to Hogwarts this year."

"Firstly," Harry says, remaining on the floor and wondering if his life could possibly get more bizarre, "That's a really rude way to introduce yourself. Secondly, Harry Potter will go where he wants. Thirdly, why are you in my bedroom?" The house elf stares at him with its huge eyes, its mouth set into a serious frown, its little, leathery lips trembling. After a moment or two, Harry feels a little bad for being so sharp with the little thing, and he says, "Sorry." He sits up, rubbing over his own face, and he asks, more gently, "Why are you here?"

"I is here to warn Harry Potter, sir. Harry Potter must not go to Hogwarts this year - bad things will be happening this year."

"Bad things happen there every year. They're called exams." The house elf looks astonished for a second, and then wildly shakes his head.

"No, Harry Potter, sir, bad things, terribly bad things."

"What sort of things?" Harry presses, but the house elf lets out a wild noise, bashing his own head into the wall, and Harry grabs him from behind, pulling him away to stop him short. "Dobby can't tell!" the house elf wails. "Dobby shouldn't be here!"

"Look, uh, Dobby, I appreciate your concern and all, but I'm definitely going to Hogwarts no matter what you say. People would miss me if I didn't go back."

"People who don't even write Harry Potter letters?" Dobby asks, looking sneaky, and Harry stares down at him, anger flaring inside him.

"Pretty sure it's illegal to steal people's post, Dobby, even if you are a house elf. You'd better hand it over right now, or I'm going to contact the Ministry." The house elf looks smug.

"And how would Harry Potter sir call the Ministry? Harry Potter is only a young wizard, and mustn't be using his wand for his spells."

"Harry Potter only needs to put his wand out to call the Knight Bus and scream bloody murder about the monster illegally stealing his post and threatening his family, Dobby," Harry says lowly as he clenches his fists at his sides. Why should this happen to him? Why can't he just have a nice summer, writing to his friends, without some bloody house elf stealing his post and trying to convince him not to go to school?

"Dobby would never threaten Harry Potter's family!" the house elf squeaks out, affronted and offended.

"Give me my post!" Harry snaps, and Dobby disappears with another loud pop. Harry sighs, sitting down on the floor again, and he turns off his radio, lying there in the silence of his bedroom. If he listens hard, he can hear Uncle Vernon regaling the Masons with a vaguely racist joke, so he does his best not to listen at all.

---

"Yeah, so he's stealing my post. I don't know what to do, to be honest - I know I threatened about the Knight Bus, but without going to the Ministry myself, I don't know what I can do about it."

"You'd think they'd have a phone in the place," Hermione complains, "It's 1992."

"I don't think 1992 means the same thing for wizards," Harry points out, and she gives a rueful laugh. There's a loud squeal of tires outside, followed by a scream, and Harry sighs. "Look, sorry, Hermione, I think Dudley's just run something over outside. I'll call you next week."

"Talk to you then, Harry. I'll send a letter and see if it gets through."

"Okiedoke, thanks," Harry puts the phone down, running to the door and pulling it open, but in the doorway he stops short. Dudley is nowhere to be seen - it's only now, having had two seconds to think about, that Harry remembers he's upstairs playing some videogame.

"Hi, Potter," Fred says, grinning down at Harry. He and George are wearing matching corduroy jeans and their F and G jumpers from Christmas, looking completely normal in Muggle attire. "Hope you don't mind-"

"But we're here to kidnap you," George finishes, and Harry smiles up at them, forgetting his annoyance at Dobby, and Dudley, and the Dursleys, and every other thing in Little Whinging that begins with D.

"Oh, brilliant," Harry says. "Come in, guys."