Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue
Book Two
Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to the events described in the preceding book.
Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.
Chapter 1
Home at First
Life with the Dursleys had been quiet. Harry kept jumping at the sound of the house settling, or Iris returning from a moonlight hunting trip - he was expecting some kind of vengeance, either from Dudley for losing access to television for a week last summer or from Uncle Vernon for... well, for Harry being a wizard.
It was a long eight days to Tuesday.
Uncle Vernon had the distinct misfortune of opening his own front door. This was not an uncommon occurrence, though in most cases Vernon felt rather more fortunate. For starters, it was his door - he owned it, frame, form and fiddly-bits. That was more than most of his employees could boast. Furthermore, he usually opened this door for himself, whether coming or going. On the rare occasions that Vernon Dursley opened his front door for someone else, he was almost always certain that the person on the other side of his door was, like him, an honest, down-to-earth and above all normal human being. Most days, Vernon felt himself quite fortunate to be able to open his own front door.
Today was not like other days. This person was not like other people. Vernon did not feel fortunate.
Harry heard the car arrive - he'd already sent Iris to find the Burrow, with a letter of introduction to Mrs. Molly Weasley. He was pretty sure Iris knew not to come back to Privet Drive.
By the time Harry had made it to the door, Uncle Vernon had already met Mr. Arthur Weasley. Harry himself had never seen the man, but - knowing Ron and three of his brothers, and also knowing that no other wizard, indeed no other human being would wear such a garish suit, the visitor's identity was rather self-evident.
Uncle Vernon was shouting at him.
"-violent, loud colors, might as well hang a sign around your neck! Why I even allow you people-"
"I say, old fellow, keep your voice down, would you?"
"-is beyond me, the whole lot of you are a bunch of-"
"I rather think you're attracting the neighbors' attention with all this shouting."
"-not letting you near my family, you hear me? Not even-"
"Really, the suit's not that bad, is it? Ronald assured me-"
"-or try your unnatural acts on MY property, I'll call the police!"
Harry sighed, stepping between them. "Goodbye, Uncle Vernon. I'll see you next year."
Uncle Vernon didn't even notice Harry leaving. Harry suspected the man had made an art of Ignoring Harry, so he'd put a 'goodbye for one year' letter on the door to Dudley's spare room. He'd also said goodbye to Aunt Petunia in person, on the grounds that she wasn't quite as irrational as her husband.
"It's invisible and it flies?"
Ron nodded. "Dad's been working on this thing for years."
"I've just about got the mechanical parts figured out," added Mr. Weasley, "but I can't get my mind around Muggle traffic laws. So I put an invisibility booster in, added a flight enchantment, and - here we are!"
Harry was impressed.
"Oh, but don't tell Molly about the flying, will you?"
"FRED!"
Harry groaned, pulling his borrowed comforter over his head. Percy's perpetual predicament regarding his particularly prankish brothers was almost as reliable as an alarm clock - if the alarm clock kept ringing an hour earlier every week - and Harry again cursed the rules restricting underage magic-use.
A few hours later, at sunrise, Harry stumbled downstairs to join the Weasleys for another breakfast. He'd been enjoying his time in the Burrow - odd name for a house - despite the constant interruptions to his sleep. Compared to his time in Privet Drive, even that was heavenly.
Mrs. Weasley, who kept insisting that Harry call her 'mum' while he insisted that word had a regrettable precedent when used by Harry Potter, had set the usual five-course breakfast. Bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, two kinds of butter, plenty of milk, and some kind of crunchy grain thing that Percy praised up as 'very nutritious' but wouldn't put a name to. Percy also complained when Harry ended his sentences with prepositions, even though Harry knew the meaning was still quite obvious.
Mr. Weasley was reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet.
MINISTRY OFFICIALS OBVIATE AZKABAN, APPOINT OBLIVIATOR
Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, age 64, today swore in
celebrated adventurer and novelist Gilderoy Lockhart, age
27, to the newly-created post of High Obliviator. "It's not as
glamorous as winning the Witch Weekly Best Smile award
four times in succession- can I say that? Yes. Good. - But it's
certainly an honor, a very high honor, and I'm definitely
more than qualified for the job," Lockhart says.
"We may avail ourselves of this new resource sooner than
we had expected," Ministry official Walden MacNair, age 42,
advised, possibly referring to the recent (continued on S-6)
"Who's Lockhart?" murmured Harry. He'd had to squint to read the bottom half of the front page upside-down while Mr. Weasley was still holding it, but it wasn't as though he'd never read upside-down newsprint from across a kitchen table before.
Mr. Weasley took a sip of coffee. "Some smarmy crowd-pleaser, gallivanting off who-knows-where all the time to fight deadly monsters or some such nonsense. Molly has all his books, though I can't think for the life of me what the appeal is."
There was a pause.
"Er, where the apple is, I thought I brought one to the table, to help with my digestion," backpedaled Mr. Weasley.
"It's by your elbow, dear."
"Thank you, Molly," wheezed Mr. Weasley. He put down the paper, the expression of utter fearful relief on his face at odds with the interrogating glint in his eyes. "Now what's all this about Lockhart?"
Harry put down his fifth slice of bacon. "The paper says he's the new High Obliviator."
"Eh?" Mr. Weasley blinked a few times, then looked at the back of his newspaper. "Oh. So it does. Carry on then."
"Who d'you reckon they'll have for Defense professor this year?"
"I don't know, Ron, Itzahk Perlman?"
Ron scrunched up his face as though trying to place the name. "Who?"
"Some musician. I doubt he's a wizard. Look, I don't have any idea who they could have teaching Defense this year, Ron. They might even bring Quirrell back for all I know."
"Eugh, no thanks."
Harry nodded. "Although he was getting good, towards the end."
"Yeah, those illusions were all right," agreed Ron.
"You don't think he'd let Snape teach Defense, do you?"
Ron mulled it over for a few minutes. "Probably not. We'd live, but the school wouldn't stand for it."
Harry agreed.
"Thanks for letting me visit, Ron," Harry said, earnestly, for about the hundredth time. "I feel like I've finally come home."
"Shut up," Ron replied for the fiftieth.
Harry awoke, hours later, to the sound of somebody delivering mail to his pillow. Ron had slipped out for extra practice with Charlie's old broom, and the interloper was clearly too small to be Fred or George - unless they'd managed to Shrink themselves, but Harry doubted they'd go to such lengths just to prank him in their own house. His house, maybe, but not their own.
"Ginny?"
Whoever-it-was yelped, fell over backwards, and made a tremendous clattering against Ron's secret shrine to the Chudley Cannons. It was secret only because he refused to talk about it; otherwise the shrine was the dominating feature of Ron's room.
Can't be Ginny, she knows better than to touch the Shrine of Donanatakabodit. And it's her birthday tomorrow. And I didn't get her anything. This won't end well. Harry turned his attention back to the intruder at hand. "Mysteriously short George?"
Another yelp, more terrible crashing noises.
Harry wracked his brain for anyone else that would sneak into his (Ron's) room at half-past three, was less than four feet tall, and didn't fear Mr. Crimson. "Er, Griphook of Gringotts having a summer holiday as a catburglar in a home with a surprising lack of cats?"
Total silence.
Odd, I expected a third yelp, thought Harry. "Who's there?"
A tiny, gray, misshapen creature - large-headed, dewy-eyed, frail of limb, and aside from its size almost but not quite entirely unlike Griphook the Gringotts Goblin - stepped forth.
It's wearing a pillowcase. "You're wearing a pillowcase. Why are you wearing a pillowcase?"
The whatever-it-was hung its head in a curious mix of respect and shame. "It wears a pillowcase because the potato sack was deemed too unsightly for its Master's house."
It took Harry a few minutes to start his brain up after hearing that. "Er, does it have a name?" Don't ask about lotion don't ask about lotion don't ask about lotion-
"It is called Dobby, sir," the miserable creature admitted. "Dobby is a House-Elf, sent to bring the Great Harry Potter mail, sir."
It took Harry a few minutes to stop thinking everything at once after hearing that. "Er," he agreed. "What?"
"You are the great Harry Potter, sir," the Elf told him. "Dobby was told to bring you this, and make sure you read it, and then return, sir."
"An elf, you're an Elf," Harry tried to remember all the things he'd thought of asking Elves if he ever saw one. Then he tried to sort out which ones only applied to the make-believe elves from storybooks and not the real Elves sitting in front of oh for the love of bacon this is ridiculous.
"Yes, sir, Dobby is a House-Elf," replied Dobby. Harry noticed that Dobby had somehow put Ron's Shhhhrine back perfectly, and was winding a fresh bandage around its bruised left arm.
"Er," stammered Harry, quite certain he was about to mess up his first human-elven liaison pursuant to the logical, peaceful effort of requisitioning, er, a squad - he knew it wasn't the best acronym, but H.E.L.P.E.R.S. was still much better than Hermione's first idea - "A Elbereth, Gilthoniel?"
Dobby stared at him for a few seconds. "...Pedil Edhellen?"
Wait, what? That was... I think I was making a joke. Why does Dobby the House-Elf speak Tolkien Elvish? What kind of Tolkien Elvish does he speak? WHAT IS HAPPENING?
"...What?" managed Harry.
Dobby sighed. "Nai, ilanwa," he muttered softly. "Dobby doesn't know. Is the Great Harry Potter reading his letter?"
Harry paused. He'd just received magical mystery mail from a strange Elvish creature that at the least knew the works of Tolkien, and at the most was some kind of wish-granting transdimensional apocalypse trapped in a frail fleshling until some innocuous condition was met. Not likely, though.
"...Is the Great Harry Potter asleep?"
"Sorry," Harry replied quickly. "I've never met a House-Elf before, even though I'm sort of part of the Hogwarts chapter - the only chapter - of the Human Elven Logical Peace Effort Reclamation Squad. Do you know if the Castle-Elves are the guardians of students' lives?"
Dobby nodded. "It is the duty of a House-Elf, or a Castle-Elf, to defend the lives of its Masters."
Huh. Maybe that's why all the professors are so cavalier about endangering students' lives. "Er, who sent the letter?"
Dobby gave Harry a pained look. "Dobby cannot tell even the Great Harry Potter that, Dobby is not supposed to tell about his Masters."
"I guess the letter's probably signed, then," Harry mused. Dobby's pained expression suddenly graduated to a tortured expression. "Why do you keep calling me the 'Great' Harry Potter? Is there another Harry Potter that isn't famous for something he doesn't remember doing?"
"Dobby doesn't think so," Dobby answered, glancing nervously around the room. "Dobby calls the Great Harry Potter the Great Harry Potter because the Great Harry-"
"Right, stop calling me the Great anything, it's getting redundant."
Dobby twitched a bit. "Dobby will stop calling the Noble Harry Potter the Great Harry Potter, as the Noble Harry Potter wishes, for the Noble Harry Potter is highly honored-"
"No honorifics, okay?" Harry gave the trembling House-Elf his best puppy-dog face, which wasn't particularly effective on humans but by some lucky coincidence was more than enough to convince Dobby.
"Dobby will try, Harry Potter," Dobby told him, meeting his eyes in total seriousness.
"Er, thanks."
"Harry Potter must read Harry Potter's letter," Dobby reminded him. "Until he does, Dobby cannot leave Harry Potter's side."
"Er, awkward," noted Harry, opening the letter.
Harry,
Sending this letter by Dobby instead of by Owl to avoid suspicion. Father acting odd and smug this month, probably anything you read in the paper is his fault. Most likely Dementors at Hogwarts. Be sure to warn Muddy so she doesn't make a fool of herself, as such would be embarrassing to you and by extension to me.
Also don't let Dobby punish himself while he's at your place, scars are hard to explain without looking like a spoiled psychopath, which is also damaging to my ambitions and makes Mother cry.
Greg doing fine, has started studying records of Wizengamot trials, likely to pester prefect Percy persistently this year at Hogwarts. Vincent fully recovered, but was warned not to try anything that stupid (read 'awesome') again or dire consequences.
P.S. tell the Weasel I'll prove he's the worst Seeker in a century this year.
This message will be eaten by my House-Elf in five seconds.
"Wait, does making you eat his letter count as punishing yourself?" asked Harry.
Dobby snatched the letter from his hands and devoured it. "Dobby likes paper. Very chewy."
Harry twitched a bit. "Right, well, that's fine then. Don't punish yourself for anything, the mysterious unidentified Draco was very insistent on that."
Dobby stopped with his hand on a genuine replica Chudley Cannons Beater Bat. "Dobby wasn't going to leave scars," he insisted.
Harry glared at him.
"Dobby will honor the wishes of Harry Potter," Dobby said, relenting. "But Harry Potter must promise Dobby one thing in return."
"Oh?"
"Harry Potter must promise that Harry Potter will not go to Hogwarts this year."