A/N: For purposes of this story line, I have moved up Dobby's warning at Privet Drive. While in canon he arrives on Harry's 12th birthday (31 July), in my storyline he makes his first appearance approximately one week into the summer holiday, so around the end of the first week of July. Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: Any and all familiar characters and story lines are the property of the wonderful Joanne Rowling, in whose world I am honoured and privileged to have an opportunity to play for a while.

Chapter 2: The Eyes in the Hedge

A week on, and Harry was thoroughly bored with his time in the Muggle world. His aunt and uncle hadn't spoken much to him, except to set him chores in the morning and bark at him if they needed something during the day. Otherwise, he was left well enough alone, which suited him perfectly.

When he wasn't working in the drive or garden or performing various chores in the house, Harry took to shutting himself up in his room, perusing his summer assignments or reading Quidditch Through the Ages, which Hermione had gifted him permanently at the end of term. He wished he could take his reading out into the sunlight, but Uncle Vernon had been very clear that his Hogwarts things were to stay in his bedroom, and Harry wasn't fool enough to think that his uncle's hatred for all things wizard would not stretch to textbooks… or even normal books – not when the pictures on the front cover kept moving, anyhow.

What he really wanted to do was write to his friends. Harry had already penned long letters to both Ron and Hermione, and even written to Hagrid, but all the letters sat in furled scrolls on the little desk by his window. Without Hedwig free to fly in and out, he couldn't send them himself. He had been hoping that Ron or Hermione would write him, and he'd be able to send the letters out with the delivery owl, but so far neither of his friends had sent any post. The silence had him a bit depressed. He hoped his friends hadn't forgotten him in the excitement of going home.

Harry's musings were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door, which was flung open before he could even open his mouth. His uncle's overlarge belly preceded him through the doorway.

'Boy,' he said in greeting. Harry stuck the parchment with his half-finished Charms essay quickly into The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 and slammed the book shut, sliding it behind him as he sat up on the bed. 'Your aunt and I are going out,' his uncle continued, eyeing the book in distaste but without comment, 'We've been invited to the Millers for tea. You and Dudley will be on your own for a few hours.'

'Ok.' Harry said. He wished that Dudley had been invited out too – it would be lovely to have the house to himself for a while. His uncle narrowed his beady eyes, clearly distrustful of this ready agreement.

'Right then. Don't cause any trouble, you hear me? Or they'll be hell to pay when we return.'

Harry nodded quickly, pushing his glasses back into place on the bridge of his nose. Vernon grunted and left the room, shutting the door loudly behind him. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The Millers lived at least twenty minutes away, and tea with guests was sure to be a two-hour affair at minimum… All in, Harry was positive he could bank on his aunt and uncle being out for at least three hours. He rushed to the window and peeked through the curtains. He saw Aunt Petunia fussily checking her makeup in the side mirror of the car, waiting for Uncle Vernon to exit the house. The panes shook a little as his uncle slammed the front door and joined her a minute or so later. He watched as the car finally pulled out of the driveway, and sped away.

He could have jumped for joy. Three whole hours to himself. Well, as long as Dudley didn't get bored and come looking for him. But there wasn't much fear of that. His cousin had seemed rather skittish around him this summer, generally choosing to stay well away from Harry whenever possible.

Harry was much happier for it.

Deciding to revel in the freedom afforded by his aunt and uncle's absence, Harry grabbed the book from his bed, his parchment and quill, and set off for the garden. He figured he'd be able to complete this essay in the sunshine – it wasn't likely that his cousin would emerge from his bedroom; not with a brand new television set and dozens of video games to keep him occupied. The sunlight hitting his face felt wonderful as he threw open the back door and headed for the garden bench. A perfect afternoon for it, too! Harry felt light-hearted, pleased for the first time that it was summer.

He plopped down on the bench and opened his book to the marked page. The assignment wasn't a difficult one, but there was a lot of reading involved. At least he would be able to complete this work without getting his new textbooks – he hadn't yet worked out how to convince his relatives to allow him to go to Diagon Alley for a day. That might prove a difficulty later, as a glance at the Potions essay he'd been set told Harry that Snape – at least – expected far more than what he'd be able to find in the first year's text. But, still on Charms for the moment, Harry settled in to work.

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An hour later, he set aside the text and parchment, stretching out his back from the hunched over position he'd been set in for so long. He hopped off the bench and wandered into the grass, looking up at the sky as he had a half dozen times that afternoon, and wishing he'd see an owl winging down with a letter from his own world. The brief elation he'd felt at his afternoon freedom had ebbed now that he'd finished the essay and could devote full attention to his musings on Ron and Hermione's silence. Harry sank onto the grass, fiddling absentmindedly with a dandelion stem that had creeped into the otherwise perfect grass. He stared despondently into the deep green of the hedges, wondering what his friends were up to right now, and considering how he might be able to sneak Hedwig out and owl them… and started.

The hedge was staring back.

A great pair of bulbous green eyes bore into his own from a point about two feet off the ground, deep in the darkness of the shrubbery. Harry leapt to his feet, just as the back door of Number 4 slammed. He turned, momentarily distracted by the noise, and saw his cousin Dudley approaching with a sneer on his face. By the time he whipped his head back to stare at the hedge, the eyes had vanished. Harry moved closer to the bushes, trying to see through the dense leaves. But whatever it was, it had definitely gone.

'Oi, Potter,' Dudley called, drawing Harry's focus from the hedge again. He turned to see Dudley at the bench he'd been working on, leaning against the handrail and holding Harry's spellbook in one hand as he leered at him. Harry made for the bench at once, snatching up his completed scroll and stuffing it into a pocket of his jeans before Dudley could take that too.

'Give it here, Dudley,' Harry said, reaching out a hand for the book. Dudley swung the tome at him, knocking his hand down, but didn't give it over.

'Why, Potter? Going to fight me, are you? Dad said you're not allowed to bring your freak stuff outside your room. What do you think he'd do if I told him you actually brought this into the garden?'

Harry found his blood boiling at the thought – not only out of anger, but also with fear. He should have known Dudley would pull something while they were alone in the house together, just to get Harry in trouble. And Dudley was right – Uncle Vernon would go ballistic if he found out that Harry had been studying magic on his garden bench.

'It's not what you think, Dudley,' Harry tried, moving closer to his cousin, 'It's just reading. Please, just give it –'

But he broke off as Dudley raised the book above his head, let it fall to the ground, then started stomping it into the earth. Harry saw the pages crumple and the binding start to slide.

'NO!' he screamed, reaching an arm toward the book.

To his shock and amazement, the book slid out from under Dudley's trainer and flew up into his hand. His cousin was thrown back slightly from the sudden change in his footing.

Dudley stared at Harry, going pale. 'You… you're not allowed!' he bellowed, pointing a shaking finger at Harry. 'Dad said you're not allowed!'

Dudley turned tail and ran into the house, the door swinging shut behind him. Harry was sure that Dudley was running to barricade himself in his bedroom. He sighed, trying to brush the dirt off the cover of his book. He was sure to get it when Uncle Vernon got back.

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Two hours later, Harry was staring into his uncle's face, watching the puce shade of his cheeks grow deeper and deeper as he bellowed himself hoarse at Harry.

'No consideration whatsoever!' he ranted, 'We bring you up, give you clothes off our own son's back, food from our table, and you DARE to threaten Dudley, do you?!'

Harry didn't bother to try and set his uncle straight. He knew from experience that when Vernon was in this sort of tirade, it was a lost cause.

'You ungrateful little wrench!' Uncle Vernon continued, slamming his hand on Harry's desk as he shouted. Harry watched as one of his ink bottles toppled over, drenching several scrolls of parchment in scarlet. Hedwig jumped and flapped her wings in apparent fright but, thankfully, didn't make any sound of protest.

'Well, I'll tell you now boy – I've had it. I'm finished with it!' Vernon strode to the empty trunk at the foot of Harry's bed and kicked it open, pushing it with his foot into the centre of the room. 'Pack your school things – NOW! They're going away for the rest of the summer. Gave you a chance, I did – but you can't be trusted. I'll not have my son in danger! I'll not have you pulling your tricks on my family!'

Harry stared in horror. Pack his school things away? But how would he get his assignments completed?

'Uncle Vernon, please,' he ventured, trying to keep his voice from shaking. 'Please, I promise, I won't cause any more trouble. I didn't mean to do that to Dudley – it was an accident!'

Vernon lowered his face to Harry's eye-level, inches from his nose. Harry could feel his furious breath hot on his cheeks. 'NOW!' he bellowed again, and shoved Harry roughly toward the desk. Defeated, Harry began to pack away his school books, quills, and parchment. He stacked them as neatly as possible in the trunk and closed the lid, turning to face Uncle Vernon again.

Vernon didn't move to take the trunk. Instead, he held out one meaty hand, palm up. Harry stared, confused.

'The stick too, boy!' Vernon said maliciously.

Harry swallowed. He withdrew his wand shakily from his pocket, handing it to Uncle Vernon. Vernon tossed it carelessly into the trunk, then latched the lid once more. Without another word to Harry, he strode from the room, dragging the trunk behind him.

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Another week passed, and Harry's summer had taken a turn for the worse. Without his reading and homework to distract him, Harry was forced to spend his days completing his chores, wandering the neighbourhood, and shut up in his room, staring aimlessly around in boredom. Worse yet, the lack of activity and evenings spent without a way to tire his mind had left Harry oddly exhausted and yet incapable of sleep at night. He was restless and ornery, turning over and over in his bed without seeming to be able to fall asleep. When he did manage to drift off, he was haunted nightly by horrendous nightmares that left him shaking in a cold sweat, and often woke to the sound of his own screaming. Some of the night terrors he could understand – they were images of the events of last term: the dead unicorn in the forest, a hulking troll with a raised club, Ron with his head bleeding – knocked unconscious by a massive chest set, and Voldemort… Voldemort's face leering from the back of Quirrell's head, Voldemort's gleaming red eyes, Voldemort grasping his wrists, and his head bursting with pain…

Other times, the nightmares were about his current worries. His sadness that his friends seemed to have forgotten him in the time they'd been apart, his frustration with his lack of distraction at the Dursleys, the contemptuous way in which he was always treated there.

And sometimes… sometimes the dreams were just odd. Flashes of an old and creepy forest he didn't recognise, unending and unendurable solitude; coldness, darkness, and anger. When he woke from these dreams, he could scarcely remember them. The details seemed to sieve from his mind as he regained awareness. And yet, they were the dreams that almost always left him the most rattled.

Most unfortunately, his aunt and uncle had been awoken on more than one occasion by Harry's nightmares. Several times that week he started awake to his Aunt Petunia pounding on the door, or Uncle Vernon roughly shaking his shoulders until he woke and quieted. They were exceedingly unhappy with him at the moment. After four nights in a row of disturbed sleep, his aunt had actually forced him to drink five tablespoons of some disgusting medicine at bedtime – a cold medication, Harry thought it was – which she hoped would keep him too deeply asleep for dreams. Whether it was because of his wizard blood or because of the intensity of the dreams Harry wasn't sure, but the medicine hadn't worked. He'd still screamed through the night, only this time his relatives had had to resort to dumping cold water over his face before they were able to wake him. Uncle Vernon was angrier than ever, and Harry hadn't been medicated again.

And so it was to a generally sleep-deprived household and a state of increased tension that the Masons were due to come that evening.

Harry's uncle sat him down in the kitchen at half seven, already dressed in his dinner things, and with an expression of barely-concealed fury on his face.

'I'm warning you now, boy,' he said, shaking an admonitory finger in Harry's face, 'They'll be no funny business tonight. You know what's at stake here – this could be the deal of my career! You'll stay shut up in that room and not make a sound, you hear me?'

Harry nodded, 'Yes, Uncle Vernon.'

Vernon grunted, and passed Harry a plate from the icebox. Harry saw that it contained a few slices of bread, a hunk of rather old-looking cheese, and some grapes.

'Take that upstairs then, boy, and stay there until the Masons have gone.'

Harry nodded quickly, took the plate of proffered food, and scurried up the stairs to his bedroom. He closed the door and began to eat, finishing the meagre portion quickly. He left the empty plate on the desk for now – he'd have to take it down when the guests had left. He heard the bell ring just as he'd settled onto his bed, having selected a book of Dudley's from the untouched shelves along the wall to occupy his time. From downstairs, he could make out a lilting, fake laugh from Aunt Petunia and the sounds of pleasantries being exchanged, growing fainter as the Masons were (presumably) ushered into the siting room for cocktails. He sighed – it was going to be a long evening, and he'd have to be sure not to fall asleep while there were other people in the house… Uncle Vernon was apt to kill him if he had an episode of night terror while they had dinner guests. He tried instead to focus on the book he'd taken from the shelf – a thick book of fairy stories, he thought it was. But the droll descriptions of magic in the pages could hardly live up to the real thing. It just made him miss Hogwarts even more.

An hour or so later, when the noises from downstairs had faded into the softer, more broken notes of conversation over the dinner table, Harry's eyes began to drift shut…

Crack!

The sudden noise, followed instantly and horribly by the sound of a shattering plate, shook Harry abruptly from the beginnings of slumber. His eyes snapping open, Harry saw with horror that his discarded dinner plate had fallen from the desk and smashed on the wooden floor. He snapped his gaze immediately to the door and strained his ears. The sounds of dinner continued, mercifully uninterrupted.

'Harry Potter, sir!' came a squeaky voice, drawing Harry's attention back to the room.

For the first time, he realised why the plate had fallen to the floor. Perched on top of the desk was the strangest creature Harry had ever seen. Two feet high and draped some sort of dirty looking rag, with long pointed ears, mottled brown skin, and familiar, bulbous green eyes.

This was who – or… was it what? – had been watching him through the hedge.

'Wha – Who are you?' Harry asked in a whisper, staring at the odd creature in naked shock. The little thing was ringing its hands, and gazing at Harry with tears welling in its eyes.

'I is Dobby, sir, Dobby the House-elf. And I is so happy to be meeting the great Harry Potter, sir!' The little elf squeaked, rather loudly. Harry shushed him, flapping his hand in panic.

'Umm, right, Dobby?' Harry asked for clarification. The elf nodded eagerly. 'Look, I don't mean to sound rude but… this is a really bad time for me to have… er, guests,' he said, gesturing toward the door. 'I live with my aunt and uncle, see, and they have people for dinner at the moment…' He trailed off as the little elf's ears drooped in sadness.

'Dobby tries not to bring trouble, Harry Potter, sir. But Dobby has to see him. Dobby must warn Harry Potter –'

'Warn me?' said Harry, still in a whisper, but now with some curiosity, 'Warn me about what? Where did you come from, exactly?'

Dobby shook his head, hopping off the desk and stepping a bit closer to Harry. 'Ah, sir, Dobby cannot. Dobby cannot say too much, sir. But he had to come. Harry Potter is in danger! Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!' As he finished his speech, the elf threw himself at Harry's feet, staring up at him with pleading eyes.

'Not – not go back to Hogwarts?' Harry repeated, completely nonplussed. 'But, I have to go back!' he hissed at the elf, 'I have to! I have lessons, and it's my home. I don't belong here with – with these people. I belong at Hogwarts, in your world!'

Dobby shook his head, grasping at his ears and twisting them in misery. 'Ah no, sir. No. Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts this year! It is too dangerous!'

'Dangerous?' Harry repeated, 'Dangerous how?' The elf was biting his lip, seeming to consider his words carefully. Harry found himself feeling sorry for the odd creature. 'Why don't you sit down, Dobby?'

If possible, the elf looked even more pathetic. He burst into hysterical tears. 'Sit down!' he wailed, 'Sit down! Dobby has never been asked to sit down, Harry Potter sir, not by a wizard – not like an equal!' Dobby began to beat his hands on the floor in a sort of rapturous misery. Harry tried to both comfort and quiet him as he heard the conversation below falter.

'Shh, Dobby,' he said desperately, 'You don't have to sit if you don't want to. But my uncle… we have to keep quiet.'

The little elf bit down on his lip to stop the noise of his crying, and slowly pulled himself together again, standing straight to look Harry in the eyes. 'There is a plot, Harry Potter, sir,' he said seriously. 'A plot to make terrible things happen at Hogwarts this year. Harry Potter must not go back!'

Harry shook his head, taking a step back from Dobby. 'I can't stay here, Dobby. I have to go back. My lessons, my friends…'

He broke off, his thoughts drifting bitterly to Ron and Hermione's silence this summer.

'Friends that don't even write Harry Potter, sir?' Dobby asked, an odd look in his eye.

'Well, I'm sure they've been…'

Harry stopped, catching sight of the half-guilty, half-hopeful expression on Dobby's face.

'Hang on a moment,' he said, advancing on Dobby again. 'How did you know that my friends haven't written? Have you done something with my post?'

Dobby backed away, looking panicky. 'Dobby had to, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby thought if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him, then Harry Potter would listen to Dobby. That Harry Potter would not want to go back to school.' At the furious look on Harry's face, Dobby hurried on. 'Dobby has Harry Potter's letters here, sir,' he said, pulling a stack of parchment from a crevice of his rags, 'And Dobby will give them to Harry Potter. But Harry Potter must promise Dobby that he will not go back to school first, sir. Dobby must be sure that Harry Potter will stay safe!'

Harry made a wild grab for the letters, but Dobby danced out of reach. He straightened up and looked the elf straight in the eye. 'I can't promise that Dobby. I have to go back. Now, give me my letters!' He dove for the elf once more, but Dobby shot past him and flung open the door. Enraged, Harry sprang out the room in pursuit.

The elf tore down the steps and into the front hall. Harry followed, trying to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible even while he raced after Dobby's little figure. The elf darted into the kitchen. Harry swore under his breath but followed suit, then froze in horror as he caught sight of the scene before him.

Dobby stood crouched on the end of the counter, Harry's letters still clutched in one long-fingered hand, the other pointing across the kitchen at the island countertop. The giant, beautifully-crafted pudding Aunt Petunia had made for that evening was floating in mid-air, apparently spelled to hover by the little elf. Harry eased toward it, very slowly. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears.

'No Dobby,' he pleaded, his voice barely a hiss, trying desperately to avoid his aunt and uncle's notice from the other room. The elf turned to look at him, keeping one hand trained on the pudding.

'Harry Potter must promise Dobby,' he said again, a pleading look in his eyes. 'Harry Potter must swear that he is not going to go back to Hogwarts this year!'

Harry stared, wide-eyed and defeated. 'I can't do that, Dobby,' he said at last. The little elf gave a tearful sigh.

'Then Dobby must do it sir. Dobby must. For Harry Potter's own good.'

And with a snap of his fingers, he let the pudding fall.

Harry made a desperate leap to catch it, but he was much too far away. With an ear-splitting crash, the pudding fell five feet to the ground. The heavy dish it had been set on rolled in circles on the kitchen floor, adding to the din, and Harry was covered head to foot in sugared violets and clotted cream. He whipped around to glare furiously at Dobby but, with a second loud crack!, the elf had vanished. Moments later, the door to the dining room flew open, and Uncle Vernon's purpling face took in the scene.

Harry remained on the floor, frozen in fear and horror, while he listened to his aunt try to shoo the shocked Masons and a sneering Dudley back into the dining room. Vernon waited until everyone had been seated again before closing the door quietly and approaching Harry. He bent down to hiss in his ear.

'I warned you boy,' Vernon spat furiously. 'I warned you. You had better hope your little stunt didn't spoil everything, or I swear to God this is the last night you'll live to see!'

Harry shuddered, but didn't dare open his mouth. He stood in silence while his uncle re-joined the party and his aunt bustled back into the room, handed him a mop, and dug out some ice cream to serve their guests. He mopped the floor with shaking hands, did his best to wash himself up in the kitchen basin, and was just headed back to his bedroom when it happened.

Through the open door to the patio swooped a large, tawny owl. It flew straight into the sitting room, dropped its missive, and took off again through an open window. The letter, most unfortunately, fell directly on top of a shrieking Mrs Mason. She tore from the house in a state of high panic, screaming all the way to the car. Mr Mason looked disdainfully down at Uncle Vernon, fetching his coat as he informed them that his wife was mortally afraid of birds, and wished them an ironic 'Good evening!' as he too took his leave. Harry knew that any hope Uncle Vernon might have had for business dealings with the Masons had most certainly left with them. Just as he knew his uncle would think it was most certainly his fault.

Vernon watched the Masons pull out of the driveway then rounded on Harry, actually shaking with rage. He stomped toward him with the letter in hand, and shoved it into Harry's grip.

'Open. It.'

Harry did, his fingers trembling on the edges of the parchment. It wasn't greetings from Ron and Hermione.

The letter was from the Ministry of Magic – an official warning for using a hover charm underage, inside a Muggle dwelling. Worst of all for Harry, the letter reminded him that he was not to use magic outside of school before the age of seventeen, and that any further use of magic on his part could be cause for a disciplinary hearing. Uncle Vernon snatched it out of his hands almost as soon as Harry reached the signature line, and read it quickly himself, his eyes gleaming in vindictive pleasure as he finished.

'So,' he said, advancing on Harry as he crumpled the finished letter, 'So… you're not allowed to use magic outside of school, then? Failed to mention that, didn't you, boy? Slipped your mind, I dare say?'

Harry swallowed, long experience warning him that his uncle was often at his most dangerous when his fury reached the point where he spoke so softly, rather than bellowing in anger. He backed farther toward the stairs, but didn't answer.

'Well,' continued Vernon, 'Well… we'll be making some changes around here then, won't we? You're never going back to that freak school – never! You'll be lucky if I let you out of that room before Christmas!'

He stood over Harry now, and Harry visibly trembled with fear. He turned to head up to his room and solitude, but Uncle Vernon grabbed his wrist painfully and whipped his nephew around to face him again.

'And this,' he said ominously, raising his other arm while keeping Harry's wrist in a vice-like grip, 'is for your behaviour this evening!'

And he brought the arm swinging down, slapping Harry hard across the face.

Harry yelped in pain and shock, his glasses flying from his nose and skittering across the hall as he crumpled down on the third step, clutching at his cheek with the hand Uncle Vernon wasn't grasping. Vernon released his other arm with a shove, and turned to go back toward the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia stood in the door with a glass of brandy at the ready. Taking it from her, he looked back once more at Harry, kicking the fallen spectacles toward their owner.

'To bed, boy. I'll deal with you further tomorrow.'

Harry stood shakily and bent to pick up his glasses. His cheek was throbbing, and his nose felt runny. Swiping the back of his hand at it, he saw he was bleeding. He stared at the streak of scarlet for a moment, in a sort of fascinated horror, then chanced a glance at the kitchen doorway. His aunt and uncle had both disappeared. Tearfully, Harry turned for the staircase again, and made his way up to bed.