Tom welcomed Harry into the Leaky Cauldron that night with warm food and a comfortable room, but to his great irritation, Harry slept fitfully.

He'd been getting on with Aunt Petunia recently, with their long-standing and successful mutual agreement. To be fair, mutually agreed-upon avoidance was perhaps not the most positive of foundations for a relationship, but he thought he'd been making strides forward.

Thinking positively.

Looking back on his first timeline, his past, Harry had to acknowledge that he had not been the easiest of teenagers to live with. Most aunts and uncles certainly didn't have to worry about guests giving their son pig's tails or four-foot tongues. They didn't have to worry about nephews getting angry and blowing up aunts, or being told they're harbouring someone hiding from death threats.

More mundanely, having strange adults coming up to their children in public insisting they were safe and just wanted to "touch the wee lad" – or shake his hand, or whatever Diggle and his like would have asked for – in hindsight, would probably have been disturbing for most parents, not just Dudley's.

So he'd made such an effort to be reasonable, to not shout, or blow things up, to do what he was told and avoid the arguments.

He'd avoided using their money, stopped eating their food, refrained from contesting Dudley's second bedroom. He hadn't asked for anything, really.

And now...

Had Aunt Petunia felt that way about him all along?

He'd been unwanted. He knew that.

He'd also been a passing visitor, apparently. Rationally thinking, Harry could admit to that too. He certainly had no one waiting for him to come back from Hogwarts, no one to live with in the muggle world.

What else he had to do to respect his mother's memory, to pay back the Dursleys for taking him in, Harry didn't know.

But still, there had been years of effort, endurance. Years of hiding his face, saving his tears, years of needing to be strong. Did that not count for anything?

The whirlwind of thoughts, the flurry of barely seen emotions, kept him awake all night.

The bleak mood followed Harry over the following few days. Waking, the atmosphere of his room seemed heavy. With his current temper, Harry felt that he wasn't even able to do justice to Tom's magnificent food. Exploring the Alley, Harry found the witches and wizards were frustrating and ponderous as they cluttered up the cobblestones with their slow steps and mindless chatter. The weather was certainly doing what it could do perpetuate his mood; the constant hiss of light drizzle seemed to muffle the sounds of the alleyway every time Harry stepped outside, and why were the other pedestrians insist on bundling together in the middle of the street instead of clearing the way by finding a dry space elsewhere?

Even in the privacy of comfort of his own room, Harry found, his studies were less an intellectual escape from the frustrations of the outside world, and more a series of mental challenges designed to dazzle and baffle him.

There was no sense of triumph when he finally connected the logic of the last of his first-year theories, catching up to where he needed to be; Harry merely wondered why it had taken him so long – eight years, if he wanted to look at it that way – before realising such simple principles.

Harry's shoulders literally felt burdened by the sense of oppressive depression.

Adding to his stress, Harry found himself compulsively doodling little mind-maps on spare parchment; they were scaled down versions of the timeline he had mapped in his luggage compartment with more details, some of which were probably wrong. The tension hanging over him, and the looming sense of doom, had Harry instinctively brainstorming for more details, more knowledge of the future. Then realising the problem, he had to hastily burn them into ash. His memory had improved, his Occlumency was progressing grudgingly, but the insistent reminder that he did not yet have a Pensieve meant that Harry was not sure that his timeline was progressing as it should.

And there were so many ways to ruin his plans, the Ministry of Magic discovering his time-travelling being only the worst.

Harry thought he was in control, he was pretty sure that he had done all the important things, but he could not confirm that until he knew what the timeline was supposed to look like.

No matter how eventful his original youth had been at the time – Harry felt the pressure of time pressing on him these days – the daily grind of his first timeline was seven years ago. The details he remembered were fuzzy at best. Who knew what significant changes he would cause to his plan due to tiny changes?

Setting the latest of his accidental doodles alight, Harry thought back optimistically to the parchment on his third compartment walls instead. That would probably be enough. He hoped.

The lack of certainty left him twitchy.

He destroyed two of his better quills because of the nervous habit he had somehow developed these holidays; the quill nibs snapped, again and again and again, filling Harry with further frustration.

His conversation with Petunia hovered irritatingly close to the front of his mind, always returning whenever he had a free moment. Despite it being no particular surprise – he'd never been wanted, he knew that – Harry had been hoping to make progress, to make a difference since he had returned to his past.

Was it working?

So much seemed out of his control, spiralling Harry further into an emotional tailspin, and he studied with desperate frenzy, controlling what he could.

At his desk, the long afternoon seemed to turn into an inordinately long evening, and finally he pushed aside his studies for another of Tom's famous meals. Trying to rise above the oppressive frustration, Harry determined that he had lasted through another long and theoretically productive day. It didn't feel like it, but he had probably continued making progress on his learning. He was trying to read ahead into second year now: Hermione would be proud.

At least, Harry thought as he crawled into bed and turned out the light, he always remembered the events of his birthdays.

The distant sounds of London traffic were barely audible as he pulled the covers up over his head and turned to go to sleep.

When Harry woke up the next morning, he was twelve. Or twelve again, Harry pondered, choosing to eat in the privacy of his room to maintain his tentative state of privacy. The significance of the day was not lost on him, and he finally threw off the persistent sulk – yes, he could admit it – that had been hovering over him for days. Harry wondered as he chewed if there was any particular emotion that he was supposed to be feeling, on such a noteworthy day. No presents had arrived overnight, for once.

Which was obvious, without Hedwig…

Errol, Harry determinedly thought, would have been redirected to the Post Office. Hermione had been in contact when she could, of course, but neither of them had access to an owl. He supposed Ron might have loaned her Errol too? Of course, they weren't that close this timeline yet, Harry remembered. Perhaps Neville?

Having finished his usual meal, Harry basked in the warm beams of light streaming in through his window. It wasn't where he would ideally be on his birthday, but he had no particular complaints. Plus, he had that plan, of course.

Even without a Pensieve – and goodness but didn't he wish that particular purchase would arrive soon – Harry had clear memories of what to expect of the day.

Vernon's dinner with his rich clients, the unfortunate drill order, Dudley's teasing barely featured in his mind. Harry was worrying about Dobby.

His mail had been uninterrupted this year. Hermione, Ron, Neville and even Hagrid were all in frequent contact with him, thanks to his premium contract with the Post Office over summer.

His daytime, thought Harry, should be relatively quiet. Tom had been good about keeping people away from him while he stayed in the Cauldron.

Fortunately, Harry was used to being alone on his birthday. And no Dursleys, the thought cheered him up. Contemplatively, Harry decided that his day would be simple. There was no dinner party to ruin, and the underage Trace that should have been on him was properly confounded by his optimistic plans of last year. Would Dobby even still find his way to Harry's room?

Harry's expectations of a quiet day were overturned when he wandered in the Post Office shortly after breakfast, and his box of mail was opened in front of him. To Harry's astonishment, brightly coloured packages in various sizes and shapes came tumbling down from his allocated cubbyhole and into the waiting Gladys' arms. Even when her arms overflowed, packages kept coming, skipping off the pile and clattering onto the floor.

Harry gaped at the multicoloured wrapping paper in surprise.

"What's this?" Harry wondered. "These are…? Um…Where did these come from?"

"Gifts from your fans," Gladys told him, beaming. She turned to pour her armload onto the counter and bent to pick up the ones that had fallen. Her voice drifted up from the floor. "I spoke to my boss about your mail wards, remember? And being who you are, he thought we should go the whole hog. We updated all your mail wards this summer, recast the whole lot, don't you know."

Harry quickly thanked her for the fuss; it had worked, after all. Then he turned his attention back to his mail. His birthday presents.

"But why?" he wondered. "No one's ever sent me presents before."

Gladys shrugged. "Couldn't get to you, I guess. The owls would have been turned back afore we redid everything. I mean, who knows what sort of folks would have done you harm as a baby. You were hidden really well for your safety, I guess, y'see? A whole bunch of people would have given up over the years, don't you know. But that doesn't mean everybody gave up. People still remember what you've done, you know. This is just a small expression of gratitude from a few."

Harry felt like he was waking up from a long sleep, and was therefore still not thinking clearly at all. Gladys kept talking about owl wards, and keeping him safe, but Harry was still stuck on the knowledge that his fame was…this famous.

"Even after all this time?" he wondered. "Eleven years later?"

"Someone thought your wards need to last this long," Gladys pointed out, "and wizard folk have long memories," Gladys pointed out. "It comes with the long lifespans, I suppose. Wizards and witches have learned to love living, and their prospects under You-Know-Who weren't very good at all. I told you about my parents, didn't I?"

Had people really been thinking of him like this all his life? Harry wondered how he'd never come across this before.

It would have been Dumbledore, he supposed, who had put the wards up. It made sense, like with the Longbottoms, what with wizards like Barty Crouch Junior around. Which raised the thought…

"Are they safe?" Harry rushed out with a jolt.

Gladys finished loading the counter up with his presents and smiled. "The Owl Postal Office prides itself on our professional conduct and secure services. We screen for dark magic," she assured Harry. "Now, tricks and traps that might be more subtle? It's probably worth checking just to be sure. Of course," she hurried on to reassure him, "I don't know anyone who'd want to hurt you, you know? You're Harry Potter, after all. We're all wishing you a happy birthday."

With a blushing face she took a small, neatly wrapped package from out of her robe pocket and added it to the top of the pile, and smiled bashfully. "Many thanks."

Harry stared.

A few minutes later, Harry had managed to shove all his new gifts into the pouch he still kept around his neck, and collected his post from his friends.

Gladys had chatted at him the whole time, Harry knew, but he'd been more astonished by his other circumstances and could only hope that he hadn't been rude.

When the door tinkled closed behind him, Harry found himself outside in the morning light, still catching up on the new thoughts that had been thrust his way.

It wasn't just the Rita Skeeter who thought he was news, Harry realised in fractured shock. Real people, family people still thought of him too.

The reality of his fame had never sunk in before. The Daily Prophet articles, the Ministry interest, the rest – that was only scratching the surface.

He felt a bit bad about treating the Owl Post people so superficially before. He'd made a difference to them, the thought slowly sunk in. Gladys' mum and dad. Martha's in-laws. It wasn't just his parents' story. Real people were alive and happy, and thought they owed something to him.

Still distracted, Harry wandered up the Alley alone.

Meandering past the shops in the Alley, Harry kept his hood up, keeping his identity hidden. He'd had no idea that people had been thinking about him, after all. Well, not like that. Who knew what other attention he might draw?

His mind unsettled, he realised that he couldn't go back to his room to study. There were too many thoughts swirling in his brain for Harry to focus on anything important.

Harry shrugged.

His birthday was a good reason to have a day off from study, after all. Plus, he might as well enjoy the day after the break in his terrible mood. After a trip down to his Gringotts vault, and a new pair of shoes, Harry found himself at a loss of what to do.

He was half-heartedly making his way back towards the Leaky Cauldron when he was struck by a thought. Eeylops Owl Emporium. Harry hesitantly considered buying another owl…but no. On Privet Drive he had no windows for an owl to use to stretch its wings. And it felt like desecrating Hedwig's friendship somehow. He simply couldn't claim she was an irreplaceable friend, and then…replace her.

Her loss was a lesson to him, a reminder of what he had to lose.

That settled his thoughts: he could not bear it if another pet died because of loyalty to him. Eeylops Owl Emporium had bitter memories, and he wouldn't buy himself anything. The pet shop however? There wasn't any harm in just visiting.

He stepped up to the door of the Magical Menagerie with a deliberately cheerful air.

There was a pile of fluffy kittens by the door, and Harry took a moment to pick a little tabby one up, and give it a cuddle.

He was busy scratching behind its ears, fending of its brothers and sisters in the meantime, when a small spot of stillness and solitude caught his attention.

A tiny ginger bit of fluff sat at the other end of the kitten enclosure, staring stonily out the window at the passersby. Was that a young, kittenish Crookshanks he saw?

Harry gently disengaged the tabby's claws from his robe as he leaned over to get a better look. Yes, it was! There was the strange, squashed-looking nose and those funny, frowny eyebrows.

Crookshanks as a kitten! Harry grinned. He could already see the distant, grumpy attitude that made him so memorable. To Harry's amusement, he knew immediately why Crookshanks had not been bought as a kitten before.

"Just wait one more year," Harry whispered to Crookshanks quietly, as the other kitten he held rolled over and begged for a tummy scratch. "You'll be chosen by an awesome person. You'll see."

Crookshanks turned away from Harry in disgust. Harry shrugged. Hermione would be by and fall in love, and the two would be happy for ever. It wasn't his fault if the half-Kneazle was a cynic.

Out of respect for the Crookshanks in his memory, he kept trying to chat, however. He had to send the hopefully shop assistant away three times – "No, I'm not looking to buy today, thanks" – and had lost count of how long he had been in the shop before he ran out of promises and coaxes to tell the part-Kneazle.

He thought he'd made progress with the grumpy little kitten, or so Harry managed to persuade himself, before the suspicious looks from the staff drove him out. He thought Crookshanks' ears were slightly pointing his way – he was positive he'd seen a twitch or two – and Harry leaned into the enclosure to scratch the kitten between his ears. Then, having spread his affections between the other six kittens who seemed to enjoy his warmth, Harry withdrew his hand and left.

He felt a little lonely leaving the shop to return to the solitude of his room. Hedwig had been his loyal companion all the way through his lonely holidays before. No matter how much he tried, this timeline would never be quite the same.

Having pleasantly passed an hour, Harry spent the rest of the morning shut up in his room at the inn, where his happy mood drifted away like morning fog. There was nothing to do, he thought, frustrated. He unwrapped the gifts from his friends, and piled the rest in the third compartment of his trunk. He didn't know the right spells to check them, after all.

His replies to his friends' letters took him less than half an hour, and after servicing his broomstick and polishing his wand, eventually Harry was driven to study his new textbooks, purely for lack of anything better to do.

After a light lunch, he found himself with time for a nap in his room before dinner. A stubborn sense of frustration was growing within him. Harry wished futilely that he could leave the Alley on this day of all days, but the looming threat of a house-elf assault, in full view of the muggles of London, compelled him to wait, restlessly, in his room.

A few hours escape to the closest cinema looked more and more attractive, but Harry kept himself to merely pacing the floor of his room.

Finally, a quiet pop and rustling sounded from behind him.

Harry turned around.

Standing before him, a nervous looking house-elf clutched his pillowcase tightly at the front of his chest.

Dobby's big green eyes gazed straight at him, large, wondering, nervous and apologetic. The small elf bowed deeply.

"Harry Potter!" Dobby exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir…such an honour it is…"

Harry, after a moment of nostalgia, spoke quickly, "Dobby the house-elf. It's nice to meet you too."

Dobby, who in this timeline had never spoken to Harry before, immediately bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, shocked to be identified directly.

"Harry Potter!" he exclaimed, his squeaky voice rising in surprise. "Harry Potter, sir, knows Dobby? Such an honour, sir, that a great wizard such as yourself is knowing Dobby's name!"

His eyes filled with tears, and the creature bowed low again, and then again and again.

"Harry Potter is a great wizard, sir. To think that Dobby can meet Harry Potter...that Harry Potter is calling it nice…" The poor elf seemed to be working himself into a frenzy. Harry quickly cut him off.

"I'm pleased you've come, Dobby. Please, sit down, so we can talk comfortably."

Dobby's luminous green eyes blinked at him, apparently lost for words, before the creature burst into loud, hiccoughing sobs.

Harry, having expected this, waited patiently for the fit to pass. Finally, the elf made his way to the indicated window seat, muttering praise under his breath.

"Dobby has been invited to sit! Dobby has never been asked to sit and visit with a wizard. Harry Potter sir is greater and more good than Dobby had heard."

Having arranged themselves comfortably, Harry once more took charge of the conversation.

"Assuming that you have been told to keep secrets," he began without preamble, "would I be right to guess that there's a loophole allowing you to confirm any guesses I can make about why you're here?"

Struck by this opportunity, Dobby cocked his head in thought, before eagerly confirming.

Harry continued.

"And we can do this without you needing to punish yourself?"

Dobby's amazement showed. "...Harry Potter's kindness and wisdom is great indeed...worrying about a mere house-elf like Dobby..."

Harry pretended not to hear.

"Then, first, I think that you are the house-elf of Draco Malfoy's family, correct?"

Dobby nodded dumbly in surprise.

"And you are bound to them forever, unless circumstances can be arranged where one of the family gives you clothes?"

Loudly, Dobby gasped. "Clothes, Harry Potter, sir? It is a great disgrace…but perhaps…" With a sudden hiccough, Dobby leaped off of his seat, and charged straight into the hardwood panelling that decorated Harry's room. "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Such insolence is never being seen in all the Malfoy elves for generations!"

Harry winced at the loud crashes and bangs Dobby's head was making against the walls, and slipped off his own seat to grab Dobby by the arm. "Hey! Enough, please stop that!"

For a few moments Dobby failed to realise that his small body was being held back from the wall by Harry's hand; he continued to run, head bowed, towards the same spot. Being held firmly by Harry's worried grip, however, meant that instead of a painful impact into the wall, Dobby simply reached the end of Harry's reach and flopped somewhat wildly in a small parabola. After missing the wall three times, Dobby paused to realise what had happened.

"Harry Potter, sir!" he wailed. "Such kindness Dobby does not deserve." His wild actions curtailed, Dobby instead reached up his bony hands to take a firm grip on his ears, and twisted sharply.

"Oi!" Harry spoke sharply. He plans were put on hold for five or so minutes, as he wrestled wildly with Dobby's small but wiry body. He reached firmly towards Dobby's hands, intending to guide them away from his elf-ears. Dobby twisted away. Harry yanked sharply. There was a sharp scuffle as Dobby found his hands removed from his ears and clamped closed by Harry's larger ones, and then they both lost their balance and toppled loosely to the floor.

"Hold it," Harry gasped. "Don't –"

"Bad elf!" Dobby scrambled to rise.

"Just hang on!"

"Naughty, naughty Dobby!"

"Hey –"

Finally, he had Dobby's limbs pinned under his superior body weight. As they both took a moment to absorb this, Harry realised at this moment that he had just done a stupid thing; Dobby had never had any trouble overpowering Lucius Malfoy when he actually wanted to. Harry had risked being magicked by a surprisingly powerful creature. Then again, overcome by gratefulness and awe, Dobby had probably avoided using magic against Harry on purpose. Or perhaps his thoughts had been otherwise occupied.

"Don't hurt yourself like that," Harry scolded, and Dobby's startled eyes met his for a moment.

Harry was feeling moderately smug about his triumph – both Dobby's hands secured, his self-inflicted punishment interrupted – when a sudden thunk arrested his thoughts; Dobby had discovered that he could ram his head into the floorboards.

It was another ten minutes later that Harry and Dobby found themselves back in their seats, Dobby gasping slightly, and nursing a slight bruise over his left eye – house-elves were resilient, after all – while Harry cradled a sprained wrist and a throbbing head, and a spot on his jaw-bone slowly darkened to purple.

They had just regained their seats when a very confused Tom knocked on the door to Harry's room and poked his head in.

"Everythin' alright here, Mr Potter?" he asked, and then his startled eyes tracked between Harry and his small guest. "I'll, ah," Tom murmured, "I'll just bring you up some hot chocolate then, shall I? Carry on."

"Two, please," Harry mumbled around his numb jaw, and soon he and Dobby were both nursing a steaming hot mug.

Back on track, Harry picked up his conversation again. He chose not to mention the clothes thing again.

"Um," Harry mumbled, "I won't mention…the thing…anymore. Let's just move on…um…Drink your drink!" He spoke quickly to anticipate another outrushing of guilt from Dobby, and watched with eagle eyes as the house elf took a tentative sip of his drink and subsided into calmness.

Harry hoped Dobby didn't realise that he had technically just fought with a wizard. It was probably against some house-elf code of conduct. He moved the conversation on.

"So, while bound to your household magically, with everything that that implies, you personally care about my survival and that of the wizarding world?"

The shell-shocked house-elf nodded, the tension in his body releasing slowly due to the warmth and comfort of his drink and, presumably, Harry's inability to act as Dobby had expected. Clearly overwhelmed, the little grey creature settled into the chair, apparently content to let Harry lead the discussion.

Harry promptly continued to confirm Dobby's wish for freedom, his respect and care for Harry's own health, and the potential dangers at Hogwarts for him in the year ahead.

Harry pursed his lips.

"I suppose, since you say Hogwarts will be unsafe, one option would be for me to avoid the school this year," he offered. "Perhaps stay in Diagon Alley, hide out from the Ministry, and let Dumbledore deal with the danger?"

Dobby drew in a deep breath, "Dumbledore is a great wizard, sir. The greatest Headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Harry Potter should stay safe and let Headmaster Dumbledore protect him!"

He finished his little speech triumphantly, only to deflate as Harry gazed steadily at the creature, gently shaking his head.

"It won't work, Dobby. The teachers and the Ministry will come looking for me, and take me back anyway. Adults like keeping track of me, you see."

Harry rushed on before Dobby could speak up again.

"As it happens, I think I might know what you are worried about. Could you confirm? Lucius Malfoy is going to sneak a dangerous dark artefact into the school? Does he know what it will do? Has he mentioned a hidden chamber? A deadly creature that will kill the muggleborn and half-blood students?" Harry dropped his voice significantly. "Something that is not quite You-Know-Who?"

Dobby's eyes grew larger and larger, and words spilled rapidly out of his mouth. Harry was obliged to pause for another collection of heartfelt compliments.

"Despite my current knowledge and understanding about the danger, would you feel tempted to stop me going to Hogwarts at all this year?"

Dobby froze.

Harry took one look at his guilty looking face, and sighed.

"Dobby," he began. "I want you to promise me that you will not try to stop me from going to school, or try to frighten me away at all during this year. No punishments later," Harry raised his voice, "I want you to promise me now and keep that promise, and I will return your trust by promising you something in return."

Dobby had clearly been building himself up to something, but once more subsided.

Feeling that he had built up to it sufficiently, Harry finally offered Dobby the deal he had previously worked out: one year of watching over Harry and keeping his secrets, and Harry would destroy the Malfoy's plan.

"I could try to buy you, or something?" Harry concluded. "Do wizards sell their elves?"

Pathetically grateful, Dobby nonetheless shook his head. "If a family be unhappy with their elf, Harry Potter, they is simply shaming him by setting him free. If a family is not unhappy with him, they is not releasing him. Ever."

Harry did some kind of quick maths in his head. "I'm a distant relative of Mrs Malfoy," Harry offered. "Would that make a difference? I mean, if you're unhappy there, then surely…"

"Harry Potter is a wonderful wizard," Dobby replied. "Harry Potter should not worry about me."

Harry drained his mug dry. "Then I'll simply have to trick them into freeing you some other way."

Deep in Dobby's eyes, a flicker of hope warred with his enduring pessimism. Clearly, life as the Malfoy house-elf had made Dobby cynical.

Harry sweetened the deal.

"You can come and visit me during the year, and we can discuss the dangers," he offered. "I am happy to swear an Unbreakable Vow to you that I will free you if you let me go to school without trouble."

But he had miscalculated. Instead of seeming pleased, Dobby stared at him silently in shock, great pools of tears welling up in his eyes.

"Harry Potter is a great wizard! Harry Potter is willing to offer his life for his promise! Harry Potter is treating Dobby...like an equal." Nonplussed, Harry stared at the flustered elf.

"Er...is that a yes, then?"

Dobby turned him down flat.

"Harry Potter must not be treating house-elves so, sir. Dobby would be a bad elf to let Harry Potter do it." He sniffed. "Dobby does not need a Vow, sir. Dobby is owing Harry Potter for life."

"Nonononono!" Harry blabbed. How had it come to this? "I just meant to make it so you could trust me! You don't owe me anything! I wanted you to believe I will keep my promise!"

Before him, the house-elf clumsily dried his eyes and stood up. Despite his long, rattling sniff, he managed to draw himself up to his full height with something like dignity.

"Dobby is never dreaming a wizard would offer such equal honour to an elf, sir. Harry Potter is giving Dobby a wizard's honour, sir. Harry Potter is trying to share equal magic with an elf. Dobby will be telling the other elves, sir! Dobby is repaying Harry Potter with his life! Dobby will remember Harry Potter's greatness, Great Harry Potter sir."

With great care, Dobby stood up, gently placing his half-empty mug on the corner of a table.

Then turning back to Harry, he bowed low once more, folding so deeply that his long nose actually met his knobbly knees with an audible thud, and disappeared with a crack. Suspiciously, the floor length mirror creaked as Dobby disappeared when Dobby snapped his fingers, and a long, jagged crack appeared in its glass.

"Oh deary," the mirror moaned. "That's seven years of bad luck, the old tales say."

Harry, left in startled silence, gazed blankly at the floor where Dobby had stood and wondered who the bad luck would cling to. As a suspicious feeling of cold dread began to collect in his gut, Harry shook himself sharply and waved his wand to fix the mirror with a sweep of his wand.

Somehow, that was not where he had thought the conversation would go.

He pondered the conversation, weighing Dobby's comments, and slowly came to the conclusion that Dobby would do one of two things.

Either, Dobby would fulfil Harry's request, allowing Harry to attend Hogwarts uncontested, or he would try to protect Harry even more enthusiastically than before. Was the mirror an accident, or Dobby's attempt to repeat the trifle incident?

For all of his efforts and planning, Harry concluded he may not have achieved anything he wanted today at all. Fortunately, there was no letter from the Ministry, so Harry could at least relax about that.

Harry considered his usual luck.

He massaged his temples firmly. What a headache.

It was early, only eight o'clock, and he had not had dinner, but Harry went to bed immediately.