Harry woke himself by coughing.

He stumbled into the loo, bleary morning light slipping through the fogged windows, and retched black gunk into the sink. Again, heaving but not vomiting, a cough that began its gather at the tips of his toes. Into the sink he spat unhealthful dusts and powders, the exposed materials of the cupboard under the stairs, fumes of the bleaches and other cleaning gallons that had been his flatmates through long toddler years, food burned to ruin yet deemed fit for him, long days locked in the cupboard with no sight of the sun, and many other noisome and unwholesome things, all hacked out into the porcelain sink, making his eyes water with their awful stench.

He ran the tap to wash it down the drain, and when it had, he guzzled water from the tap and splashed his face. His skin was sweaty and grimy, as if he had walked through plastic smoke and lain in foul things.

He rushed to the toilet, and the results of that were little less foul. When that was done, he was onto a bath, into water that quickly turned grey so he had to run it again. But he washed himself quickly, for he was suddenly as hungry as if he'd skipped dinner the night before rather than gorging himself.

Feeling energetic, peckish, and far more human, he got out and took his first real look in the mirror.

His first impression was that he was looking at a stranger. His second was that he hadn't changed at all. His third was to spot the differences.

He was still himself, with bright green eyes and messy black hair, but he was not so pale, and he was more filled out, his chest a tad broader. Was his chin a little more prominent? His cheekbones a hair higher? Perhaps, just a little. It was like how sometimes even identical twins didn't look quite the same. He'd become the handsomer twin.

He dressed quickly and checked himself against the mark on the wall he'd drawn the night before. It was hard to be accurate, measuring himself, but he thought he was taller. Not much — an inch and a half at the very most, likely less, so it seemed he'd never been destined for tallness — but it was what it meant that might matter.

Harry didn't care for taller or handsomer. But healthier? That might come in handy. And if his brain were a little sharper, his magic a little readier… But if he had become a genius overnight, he couldn't tell.

He went down, got another large meal from Tom, who muttered about kids his age having hollow legs, and considered in what order to go about things. The next step, he decided, even before shopping or cracking into books, was to try and hook up with his old comrade in arms.

After eating, he went back up to his room, shut the door, and not quite sure what would happen, said, "Dobby. Dobby. Dob-"

"The Great Harry Potter is wanting to talk to Dobby!?" said the elf, popping suddenly into existence at his side. He still had all his nose of course, and he looked happily up at Harry, dressed in a overlarge shirt and a small girl's bright pink swimming bottoms, Harry's old black sock on his his left foot, a long white tube sock sheathing the other leg.

Harry knelt and hugged the little elf.

"Harry Potter sir!" the elf gasped.

"Good to see you, Dobby," Harry said, releasing him. "Have you found a new job yet?"

Dobby, however, would need more than a single second to recover from being embraced by 'the great Harry Potter.' He ran about the room, and Hedwig fluttered up onto the top of a bedpost and stared down imperiously at him. It was a few minutes before Harry could get any sense from him, and even then-

"The Great Harry Potter sir wants Dobby to work for him?!"

"Yes. Say six galleons a week, and one day off each week? Plus room and board."

Dobby wailed. That was far too much, and the little house-elf was so full of joy and embarrassment that he seemed in danger of shaking apart. He had, however, once he had calmed down enough, an objection.

"Dobby wants to be free," Dobby said. "Harry Potter may be a great Master, but Dobby does not want any Master."

"You can quit," Harry promised. "Anytime you like. You don't need my permission, you can just tell me. And if I ask you to do anything you really don't like, you can tell me no. You can keep wearing clothes too. The only thing is that if you do quit, you still have to keep my secrets."

This was such generosity that Dobby had to bury his head under Harry's pillow before he could compose himself enough to talk Harry down to terms Harry thought were about what he'd got from Dumbledore originally.

"I'll warn you, Dobby. I'd be asking you to do some very important and dangerous work, and we could both die at it. But other times, I won't have much work for you at all. It's not like I have a house and a family to take care of."

"Dangerous work against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Yes."

Dobby drew himself up to his full three and a half feet. "Dobby will be doing his part. Dobby will help Harry Potter stop He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named from ever coming back."

That was exactly what Harry had wanted to hear, and the bonding itself was very simple. Dobby put his hand on his heart and said, "I is Dobby, a free elf. I shall be working for Harry Potter. I shall do what he is saying and help him however he likes. Even if Dobby is no longer working for him, Dobby will still be keeping his secrets."

"I'm Harry Potter. I agree to all that. I'll pay Dobby one galleon, one sickle, and one knut each week. He gets two days off a month. He can wear clothes, and he can quit whenever he likes. I'll provide him with nesting, board and salt. I'll look after him and keep him well."

They spit in their palms, shook hands, and a warmth passed up his arm and rooted into Harry's gut. The contract was formed, and he had a house-elf. He paid him his first month's wages on the spot.

"We'll go out into the Alley in a few minutes," said Harry. He wrote a short letter to Dumbledore asking what the man was doing with 11 galleons a month, and sent Hedwig off with it. Then he climbed down into his trunk and brought up his grandparents. He set them on the bed, which Dobby had made while Harry hadn't been looking, and leaned the frames against the wall.

They both gaped at Dobby. "My," said Fleamont slowly, "That's a very interestingly dressed house-elf."

"Look like clothes to me," said Euphy, leaning forward in his frame. "Strange clothing, but clothes. Are you freeing him?" she asked, mouth twisting.

"No. Dobby's a free elf. He works for me, that's all.

They both went curiously blank. After a long moment of such frozen blankness, like muggle photographs of people making polite expressions, Euphy said, "If you're going to have a young boy in your charge, you'd best dress him better than that. And I say, is this your house? You don't seem to have much in your room. Haven't you a bookcase?"

"I won't go home until tomorrow," said Harry. "This is the Leaky Cauldron. I wanted to ask you some more questions." Over breakfast, he'd thought of several other things that might be useful, some of which he knew existed but didn't know if he already owned, and some of which he merely thought ought to exist because they seemed both useful and possible.

They talked, and the main item he learned was that the Potters hadn't had a pensieve.

He turned the portraits to face out the window while he was gone and went out with Dobby into the Alley. He reckoned his grandparents were right and he'd better get Dobby some new clothes. The girl's swimming bottoms really were not on.

Ignoring the stares, he checked his stride at Madam Malkins, but continued on. It only sold robes, and he vaguely recalled a shop in Diagon Alley that sold more modern, muggle-style wear.

A bell rang when they entered Eyelet's Fitters. The witch at the counter had a piercing through one eyebrow, which was very unusual for a witch, and she was wearing a shirt with a picture that had to be from a muggle movie. Electric guitar music played quietly in the background.

"Hello," said Harry. "I'd like clothing sized for my friend here."

She gaped at Dobby, came forward, gaped a little more, and said, "My, aren't you the cutest thing I ever did see. What's your name?"

"Dobby." the elf said with uncharacteristic nervousness.

"And you want clothing?"

"Yes," said Dobby shyly. "Dobby is a free elf. Dobby is wanting clothing."

The woman blinked, but then she smiled. "Well Dobby, how would you like to look? Fun, dignified, flashy, dapper?"

Dobby fidgeted.

"Dobby is not having much money, and-"

"I'll pay for it," said Harry quickly.

Dobby's eyes widened even past their normal tennisball size, and he turned to Harry. "Dobby can't be accepting clothes. Dobby will be buying his own clothes with his wages."

"Wages?" whispered the witch.

Harry ignored that and answered Dobby. "I'm your boss. It's like I'm buying you your uniform, that's all. That's normal. Anyway, if you look good, I look good, and if you look bad, I look bad. Isn't that right?" And he glanced at the witch.

"Definitely," said the witch, surprised but quick on the uptake. "It's perfectly normal for bosses to supply their employees with uniforms, and you don't want to embarrass your boss by looking bad, now do you?"

"No…" said Dobby.

"Any preferences by colour?" asked the witch. "I'm guessing you like them bright."

She knelt down and listened carefully to the house-elf, nodding as he spoke.

"I know what we'll do," she said. "Suits, in bright, contrasting colours. Green and red. Blue and yellow. Purple and orange. You'll look grand. Does that sound good?"

Dobby agreed it did, and she went off him, walking the aisles and showing him various fabrics. Dobby pounded his head several times against counters and stands, insisting he wasn't worthy, but he was shortly in a changing room trying on clothing that had been resized to fit him.

The witch turned. She stared at him for a long moment with her brow furrowed, and Harry was sure she'd ask about Dobby. Instead she shook her head and said, "Are you getting anything? If you're going for grunge, it's not working."

Harry began to demure, but Dobby stepped out of the changing room. He was in the bright blue suite with yellow collared shirt, and he had stuck a matching fedora on.

"Yes," said Dobby, "Harry Potter sir must get his own clothing!"

The witch froze, then looked at Harry.

"Yes," said Harry. "I'm him. Dobby, when we're out and about, you can just call me boss and not use my name."

"Yes Boss. Dobby will feel much better about accepting clothes if Boss gets his own clothes."

Harry sighed but moved over to a rack. He supposed it would be good to get some jumpers and things so he wasn't freezing under his robes during the winter.

But the witch was good at selling, and absent conflict, Harry was not much good at saying no, especially not with Dobby visibly relaxing at every item he grabbed. He ended up with a whole selection of jeans, slacks and corduroy pants, buttoned shirts, t-shirts, flannels, jumpers, long winter underwear, thick woolen socks, silk socks, black boots, and a black leather jacket that she swore would grow with him if he oiled it properly.

He stuffed most of it, Dobby's and his alike, into the bag, and after paying a sum that was less than he'd feared but still enough to make him wince, they exited back out into the street, Harry wearing black boots, blue jeans and the leather jacket, which wasn't too hot even though it should've been on a warm summer's day. Dobby was in the blue suite, with a fine blue and yellow fedora in his head, holes cut out for his ears, and black shoes polished to a shine on his feet. Dobby was smiling broadly, and he kept tipping his hat.

They were still getting stared at, but it was a different sort of staring than before, and they were mostly staring at Dobby anyway, so Harry supposed it was the best they would do.

They went out into the rest of the Alley, and Harry led the way to Borgin and Burkes. It was as dusty and full of disreputable magical artifacts as ever, and Mr Borgin was alone at the counter, no one else in the store.

Harry closed the door behind them and took a breath. The trouble was that he had very little belief in his ability to off Voldemort all on his own. He needed help, and that was hard for him. Harry was secretive by nature, and he hated asking favors. But after the cottage, when he'd really gone to war, he'd learned the power of honesty and of mobilizing others.

But to get that help, he had to justify knowing about Horcruxes, and he didn't fancy how Time might take it if he started on some long, complex explanation of things he'd learned in the future, even if he didn't say how he knew it. A couple spells had been bad enough. But if he could find a book on Horcruxes, everything would come together.

Mr Borgin looked up. Their eyes met, and the wizard's breath hissed out between his teeth.

"I'm looking for books."

"There's a bookshop four doors down."

"But I don't know if they have what I want," said Harry slowly. "I'm looking for special books. I'm looking to find out why Voldemort isn't dead."

The man jumped half out of his skin and went stiff as a rod.

"There are books, aren't there, on a how a dark wizard could do that? I wondered if you might point me in the right direction."

Mr Borgin's eyes caught on Harry's scar, and some small portion of his tenseness eased. "Young man," he said, "Not only is this not a bookshop, it's not the Department of Mysteries either."

"No, but I still reckon you're a good man to ask."

In the process of shaking his head, Mr Borgin caught sight of Dobby. He stared openly, and Dobby sketched a little bow, holding onto his hat as he did.

"I could buy other things too, if that helps. I imagine that creepy candle hand is worth a bit." asked Harry. "After you put me in contact with the right person."

"No," said Borgin. "Get out! Boys don't belong here. You don't belong here." He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "If you want to buy here, don't come yourself."

"I-"

"Out!" Borgin hissed, gripping his wand.

Harry shut the door behind himself and looked angrily up at the grey sky, feeling terribly stupid for having thought that would work, but having no idea what he should've done instead. And what did Mr Borgin mean by not coming himself? So Mr Borgin didn't want to be the shopkeeper caught selling dark books to the Boy-Who-Lived. What was he supposed to do? Disguise himself?

Dobby tugged on the bottom of his jacket. "Dobby can be getting you dark books," said the little elf. "Dobby knows where the Malfoys got them. Dobby could wear a tea-towel and call himself Clanky, and no one would know he was Harry Potter's elf."

Harry started, realizing not only that that was what Mr Borgin had meant, but remembering that Dobby knew more about the magical world than he did, had been more places and done more things, and he wasn't stupid. Frequently overwrought and often childishly naïve, yes, but not stupid.

"Alright," said Harry. "You can do that later today, or tomorrow. I'll want books on how dark wizards can keep themselves alive and resurrect themselves. And I want everything you can find on Voldemort."

Dobby shuddered.

"Everything you can find on Tom Riddle," he amended. "We'll call him that. Dobby, how old are you?"

"Dobby is 37."

Harry didn't know what that meant in elf standards. He had the idea that elves lived longer than wizards, and that wizards lived longer than muggles, but he couldn't swear to either. Regardless, it was a lot older than him, all of that time spent living in the Magical World. "What do you think I should get, then? I'm trying to equip myself for anything that might happen."

As they walked out of Diagon Alley, keeping a wary eye on everyone else there, daytime or no, he ran down the list of what he already had. When he'd finished, Dobby led him into a little cul-de-sac. In it was a jeweler's shop fronting the street with wide windows.

The inside sparkled with glass, gems, and polished metal. When Harry entered, a mustached wizard in posh dress robes approached him immediately, and Harry disliked the man's smile. It oozed. His eyes bulged briefly when he saw Dobby, but then the oozing was back.

"How may I be of assistance to you today?" the wizard asked.

"Er, I'll just look around," Harry said, gesturing vaguely at a glass-topped counter and stepping toward it.

"I'll help you," said the man, coming in at an angle that at once intercepted and herded.

Harry turned right around. Just a salesman, but Harry couldn't stand that predatory gleam, that intrusive look. It made him itch for his wand, made him see red, made him have to control his breathing.

He hissed to Dobby, "Isn't there anywhere else we could get these things?"

"This is the only place for these things Dobby has gone," the elf answered. "Dobby has heard of another place, but he doesn't know if it's good."

"We'll try that," said Harry, rushing out the door. He had a pouch full of galleons. He hadn't thought buying things would be so hard.

The glass door shut behind them. Dobby threw himself onto the street and began cracking his head against the nearest lamp post.

"Dobby is sorry!" he wailed. "Dobby is a bad elf! Dobby should've known Harry Potter wouldn't like-"

Harry caught him by the arm and stuffed the elf's fedora back on so it could take a blow if needed. "Dobby, it's fine. I'm not upset. I'm the one who didn't like it. I'm glad I know it exists. Did Lucius Malfoy used to go there? And Narcissa?"

Dobby nodded.

"Well then, I'm even gladder to know about more about them. Interesting people." Ones whom he probably ought to keep tabs on, if he any idea how. "Look Dobby, you can punish yourself if you like, but I'd rather you didn't. Want me to order you not to?"

Dobby stood up and shook his head quietly. He had produced a large silk handkerchief the colour of blood and was dabbing his eyes, and they had drawn a small crowd of shoppers who'd stopped in their tracks to watch. He doubted they'd heard much of what he'd said to Dobby, but they'd certainly heard Dobby's wails.

Questions were lobbed his way, and Harry found himself saying, "Er, no," to a formidable middle-aged witch in red robes, heavy jewels hanging from her long earlobes, "I've just taken him on. As an employee. His old owners from before he managed to win his freedom were awful, so I guess it'll take him awhile with some things."

That response blew whatever else she'd been planning to say clean out of her head, and he took the moment to say, "Really must be going now," grab Dobby firmly by the wrist, and walk quickly away, aiming for the nearest corner, ignoring the whispers behind them.

When they had got around it into the nearest cul-de-sac, Dobby pointed. "Harry Potter sir did know the place." He was pointing to a store called Bellflax and Rings: Magical Accoutrements.

There was a window, but it wasn't so large, and it didn't quite glimmer. Prices were listed on the items displayed, on large green tags. Harry let out a breath. This was much more his speed.

When they entered, an older wizard with wild strands of grey in his long floppy brown hair was stocking shelves. He smiled with just his lips at Harry, looked away, and then did a double take, staring openly at Dobby.

"What," said the wizard, "is that?"

"My house-elf."

"He's clothed."

"He's free, answered Harry. "I just employ him."

The wizard's brow furrowed, and he came out from behind the counter and watched them intently. Harry did his best to ignore him and began to browse.

It was a good deal like a larger version of Dervish and Bangs in Hogsmeade, though Harry had never got to know that shop well, only briefly browsing it a few times. Ron hated going because most everything was expensive, and Hermione had usually invested all her nagging into getting a 'decent' trip to Tomes and Scrolls in. As for Harry himself, up until the Horcrux Hunt, when they'd suffered so very much for the lack of suitable magical devices, he'd tended to look down on magical devices as something for wizards who were bad with their wands.

"This mirror lets you look at things far away?" Harry asked, holding it up.

The man chuckled awkwardly. "Er, yes. Provided it's not secret or private or warded. So don't go trying to see into the girl's dorm. Haha. My little joke. It takes a certain skill to use, and you don't see what's happening at the moment, you understand. It's present habitual, not present continuous, if you catch my meaning."

Harry didn't, but he picked up the mirror and thought of King's Cross. Nothing happened, and he felt very foolish, as if he were back in Divination, staring glumly into a crystal ball. But then the mirror rippled, and he glimpsed, for a just a moment, a hazy view of the Divination classroom, windows closed and smoke rising from braziers.

"Looked like memory," said the wizard, "not a true showing, but a fair start. "

The price wasn't bad, so Harry carried the mirror with him and grabbed two mokeskin pouches strung to hang around a neck, one for him and one for Dobby.

The elf began, "Dobby can't-"

"This is a tool to do your job with," said Harry. "I may need you to carry things securely, and this is small and easily hidden."

Dobby accepted that. Harry said to the wizard, "Do you have any sort of mirrors that you can talk to other people through?"

"Speaking Glasses? I'd have to order them in special. Tolerably easy to make yourself, you see, and most people prefer floo calls — can talk to anyone that way."

"That's alright then." He wouldn't need them anytime soon, so if they were easy to make, he might as well make his own. "Dobby, any thoughts?"

Dobby led him to a jewelry case and pointed to a bronze watch

Harry was already wearing a wristwatch. He'd bought it summer of the previous year at a much smaller store. It'd stopped working the first time around after he'd plunged into Black Lake with it in the second task.

But this wristwatch, the shopkeeper explained, would keep working regardless of water up to a depth of 1000 fathoms, and it kept track of the phases of the moon and the rotation of the constellations in addition to the time. It also, most importantly, had a small socket in the band that was actually an undetectably extensible wand holster, and the whole wand vanished up it at a flick of his wrist, and back out into his palm after another flick. He got the hang of it with just a few tries.

He swallowed at the price but said he'd get it. "What else is good?" he asked.

The wizard took him to an aisle full of what seemed to be the magical equivalent of tellies and video games, from kaleidoscopes that let you have lucid dreams when you looked into them, to sets of walking, talking, flight-capable action figures that would act out whatever story you wanted as you played with them.

"Er," said Harry, unsure how to put it.

"The Boss," said Dobby, drawing himself up to his full diminutive height, "Is being wanting practical items, not toys."

The man looked as if he wanted to say something nasty to Dobby, some cutting response. But he glanced at Harry, shook his head, and led him off to a more useful section of the store.

Harry didn't buy much, being unsure of what he already had, but he left a little later with not only the watch, the pouches and the mirror, but also a premium wandcare kit and a Necklace of Hearing, which would let him hear better whatever he focused his attention on, especially when people said his name nearby.

They stepped back into the Leady Cauldron for lunch. Dobby cracked his head on the chair when Harry asked him what he wanted, and he insisted on eating under the table. With the necklace of Hearing on, Harry heard no little whispering about himself from the other patrons, and just as much about Dobby. It made him want to take it off, but he didn't.

After, they stepped back into his room.

Hedwig had already returned, with a short letter. Harry snatched it up.

Dear Harry,

I'm happy to hear you're taking more of an interest in your legacy. I was honoured to work closely with your parents in the struggle against Voldemort, and they, like their grandparents before them, were essential in funding the fight. These 11 galleons monthly have been equally essential in funding the aftermath. Mainly, a number of families took on great deal of debt in purchasing the wards they needed to defend their homes. Without such wards, the Weasleys, for example, would've been unable to safely host you the summer before last. Those 11 galleons monthly have helped many to gradually pay down those debts, a process that is still ongoing.

If you have any further questions, feel free to come to me in my office at the start of the year.

-Albus P.W.B Dumbledore.

He read it aloud to the portraits, and Euphemia shook her head. "Work closely indeed," she said. "Did whatever he said, more like. I don't like it that he hadn't told you, not so much as a by your leave. He's shifty, that man."

Harry gaped at her.

Fleamont leaned into her portrait and patted her shoulder. He turned to Harry and explained, "Euphy was never any great admirer of Dumbledore's. Neither was I one of those who regarded him with a cultlike reverence, but we certainly did support his efforts against bloodpurists, monetarily and otherwise. He's a terribly powerful wizard, and he seemed not only a good man, but our strongest going concern against Voldemort."

"And a complete coward and nincompoop," said Euphy.

Harry could think of hardly anyone who had faced their death more bravely than Albus Dumbledore, or who was less of a nincompoop.

"She's still upset with him over Grindelwald's War," Fleamont explained, catching Harry's look.

"But he won it," said Harry. "He beat Grindelwald."

"Won it?" exclaimed Euphy. "Is that what they say in your day? Thousands of witches and wizards from all across the world won that war. Albus Dumbledore took part only when Grindelwald's forces were reaching their desperate end and it was clear that if he didn't join in posthaste, he would be remembered as the man who'd refused to fight despite being one of the great duelists of his time. He challenged Grindelwald when the tyrant was already worn and exhausted, and he won what was, admittedly, a duel of the highest caliber. Then he came straight home, without the least concern for all the fighting that was still be done, and paraded humbly around collecting laurels. Won it indeed."

Harry thought he had a better idea than they of why Dumbledore had hesitated to take part, but he didn't say so.

"Regardless, the debts are real enough," Euphemia said, "And we surely would've taken steps to make our allies whole, but 11 galleons a month across 12 years is no little sum. He should've spoken with you about it, and you should ask to see the payment schedule — see whom you've been supporting, and when they won't need it anymore."

Harry nodded, but he didn't care to see that. He took out the pairs of reading spectacles, selected the one that looked too feminine for Ron, and wrote a quick note, saying, "Up for another delivery, girl? It'll be to Hermione."

Hedwig snatched it from his hand as soon as he'd sealed the spectacles into the envelope and winged off through the window.

"Those were mine, dear," said Euphemia.

"I hope you don't mind them going to my friend. I expect you'd like her, though she'd be surprised at you. But she's been through a lot with me, and I imagine she'll be through more. Those reading spectacles, they really are helpful?"

"Oh yes. They should be mandatory in class in my opinion, rather than disallowed. But so many wizards these days are suspicious of any 'unnatural advantage.' Hah! Complete foolishness."

Harry had seen that, less than in what was done than in what wasn't done but could be. He shrugged. Time to test his own spectacles.

Harry and Dobby went back out into the alley and straight into Flourish and Blotts, Harry clutching the lists he'd been given by Percy and Hermione.

The shop wasn't crowded. Harry found the first several books easily, checking them off the lists as he went. Many of the books, such as the one on Arithmancy, he perhaps didn't need anymore as there had been equivalents in the Vault, and it was quite possible that he already had his own copies of some of the older ones, but Harry bought them all anyway, knowing he didn't have much time in the Alley

He opened one and began to read, wondering how exactly to activate the magic in his spectacles. He skimmed ahead for anything on Hufflepuff's Cup or Ravenclaw's Diadem, and had the sudden sensation that while he'd thought he was sitting in a chair, he was actually on a bike. His reading sped up, and he read a whole paragraph, every last word, as quickly as he'd been planning to skim it.

He blinked and read more. To read faster, all he had to do was try. The words flew by, and he could almost feel the spectacles helping his mind to set every idea in its place. If he liked, he could read faster still, a wide and long page read in ten seconds, but by that point, his mind couldn't keep up even with the aid of spectacles, and he absorbed nothing of what he was reading.

But that previous speed, appreciably faster than normal but not so fast that he couldn't understand… How much better would his research had gone if he'd had these?

He shut the book, and suddenly more hopeful, looked for the rest. Now that he had some idea of what he was doing, he used the spectacles to help him look for The Encyclopedia Runica.

It was at the other end of the shop, on a bottom shelf, half hidden by wider books on either side, and his gaze caught on it like iron drawn to a magnet.

He quickly found the books on the list, and grabbed, when he saw it, a recent book on the history of Beedle the Bard. He could not, however, find the last book on Hermione's list in Flourish and Blotts.

Harry was almost sure that James and the Giant Peach was a muggle book, and a famous one at that, though he'd never read it. He wondered why she'd recommended it to him.

Still turning that over in his head, they began the walk back to the Leaky Cauldron.

And then there was the man in the middle of the street, blocking his way, a whole crowd of them, though in fact, several of them were women. Regardless, they all seemed like men to him. There was an aggressive, angry swagger to them that he had only ever associated with males of the species, with Uncle Vernon and Dudley, with Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape.

"What the bloody hell is that?" said the foremost man, pointing his wand at Dobby. It was more than rude to point with a wand, and he had a proper grip on it too. He could Curse at a moment's notice. Harry's own wand came almost unconsciously into hand, but he didn't raise it.

"My house-elf," said Harry.

"Then why the fuck is he dressed like a real person?"

Harry blinked slowly. There was a roaring in his head. In the past, it would've had him shouting, but now it had him thinking of what Curse he should use, of how he'd play hit and run with the band that was after him.

"He is a real person," Harry said, but what he wanted to say was 'Sectumsempra.' "I've hired him."

"Hired?" said a woman, but her eyes were directed in the vicinity of Harry's kneecaps. "Are you taking pay, you terrible elf?" Dobby quailed as if struck, falling to his knees.

"Bad elf, bad elf, bad elf," took others up in a chant, mixed in with cries of 'terrible elf,' and 'horrible elf.' Dobby shook, his face pressed to the ground.

Harry picked the elf up with his left arm, like a bony parcel, his wand out defensively. He hadn't expected anything like this could happen in the middle of the day in Diagon Alley. Knockturn maybe, but not here.

"A lesson for you, boy," said the leader, beginning to twirl his wand in a circle.

Another man caught him by the arm, just when the spell would've cast, halting it dead. "That's Harry Potter!" he hissed. "See the scar? And he was in the paper all year."

The man's smile turned nastier, but he lowered his wand fractionally. "Potter, eh? You're thinking to profane your parents' memories?"

Harry had learned to run, but he didn't run then. It was an orderly retreat, walking quickly backward, eyes on them, his own wand out, Dobby under one arm, the brim of Dobby's hat caught between two fingers. "Dobby, Dobby, pop us away. That's an order, Dobby, pop us away."

One moment, he was retreating while the mob advanced, and the next they were in the room at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry's grandparents on the walls, the trunk nearly packed.

He set Dobby on the bed, where the little elf shook and sobbed and moaned.

"It's alright," said Harry. "You're a great elf, and we'll get you other clothes if you like, ones people won't mind so much."

Dobby sat up. A sniffle of his long nose was a sight, and his tennis ball eyes were still blubbering. "No, Dobby will be doing it. Dobby will be being the first free elf. Dobby will be dressing well, Dobby will be having dignity."

And he wept, curled into ball, banging his head on the mattress, again and again.

Harry wasn't proud of how he'd acted in regards to house-elves before. He still didn't agree with Hermione's ideas on S.P.E.W., but then, he'd never agreed with Ron's general defence of the status quo either. He'd just sat, listened, and got annoyed at Hermione for kicking up such a fuss and trying to drag him into it. He hadn't done anything, or even thought much about what to do.

But he'd do better this time. He owed it to Dobby

#

#

It was a Wizarding Bar. There were more of them than Harry had imagined, tucked into random spots in the countryside far from prying muggle eyes, but easily accessible by floo, portkey, or apparition. Harry had got there by elf, and he was crouched in the high grass outside, difficult to see even if it weren't night. Past that, he was disillusioned and Silenced, spells he'd learned from books Dobby had found him, along with the Cat's Eye Charm, which had him seeing in the dark as if it were dusk.

He was looking through omnioculars and counting every minute. If he stayed in one place for more than three hours, Voldemort tended to find him, thanks to that damnable deluminator. It made sleeping difficult, but maybe that would help. Tired and cranky, the whole world feeling half real, might be just what he needed for what came next.

This particular bar was the one where Death Eaters and Snatchers drank. From what he and Dobby had been able to find out, there wasn't much difference between the two. Death Eaters were like officers and the snatchers were troops, that was all.

The door opened, and in the light cast, Harry saw one of the faces he recognized.

It was Crabbe. Mr Crabbe. He didn't even know the man's first name, and come to think, he couldn't remember the younger Crabbe's first name either. But names didn't matter. He knew what the man was.

And the man, as it happened, was leaning into a shrub to puke. He'd noticed this before, keeping watch. It seemed the even in a wizarding bar, where vomit could be easily Vanished, it was polite to go outside for that.

Harry approached silently, slowly, and yet in no time at all, he was behind the man. He raised his wand, and Crabbe vomited again.

Blood pounded in Harry's ears. What would Dumbledore say? What would Mrs Weasley say? He couldn't do this, he wouldn't, who had he been kidding?

"Sectumsempra," said Harry, and his wand was steady. When the spell hit, he was nearly as surprised as Crabbe.

The man screamed and whirled, transforming his shout midway through into a Shield Charm. The curse had slashed deep into his back, and the blood was flowing freely, but without Harry's full commitment, without his even knowing he was actually going to go through with it until he had, it wasn't deadly, not even disabling, not immediately.

"Confringo," hissed Harry. His Disillusionment Charm broke, fragile as they ever were, and though Crabbe staggered, his shield held. He was screaming and no doubt someone would run out soon.

"Harry Po-!" Crabbe began, but a snap rang out, and Death Eater went flying. Dobby had got behind him, where the Shield didn't cover. He hit the ground with a whumph and began unsteadily to push himself up.

"Sectumsempra," said Harry again, aiming for the neck.

#

#

I planned on weekly updates, but, well… Part of the reason this chapter took so very long was that it didn't feel right. I kept backing away awkwardly from Dobby. Part of it was life, and the usual waxing and waning of my interest in this fandom.

I see a number of people don't like the flashbacks to the vanished future. Sorry, but so long as updates continue, so will flashbacks. If I do my work right, they'll be important to understanding the story.