AN: Hello! I'm still alive! Please read the bottom note after this chapter for important information.


Chapter Three: Not All Fun and Games


Despite having handed off basically all his duties of being an earl to his steward, Harry had found himself shadowing Mr Higgs every once in a while when the man went about his business. Mr Higgs was a patient man with a son of his own, so the first time he'd surveyed the goings-on of the house-elves and the renovation crews and caught sight of Harry tailing him covertly around the manor, he found himself endeared and took Harry under his wing. Mr Higgs' son didn't have any interest in his father's work, so the older gentleman thought it quite novel to have Harry follow him around and ask questions.

On the occasion that Mr Higgs' responsibilities took him away from Potter Manor and Hindsmoor, and Harry still wanted to go with him, Mr Higgs would charm Harry's hair light brown, his eyes light blue, and modify his nose shape, all very much in the same manner that Mr Higgs had himself. Harry would then be dressed in the style of the Higgs' family social spectrum, and an oversized newsboy cap would be affixed with a Sticking Charm to his head to cover his distinctive scar. All in all, Mr Higgs ended up going around with a young boy that was easily mistaken as his own child — and indeed Mr Higgs' associates would comment that they didn't know he had another son or ask him which of his younger brothers this nephew came from.

This particular day was one such occasion. It was a week and a half before Harry was off to school again. Erised was knee-deep in some theoretical thaumaturgical text that went right over Harry's head, as he had been for several days now, and Mr Higgs had shown up like an angel descending from upon high to deliver Harry from re-reading his school books for the third time since he'd gotten them.

Harry now stood behind Mr Higgs in a well-kept office as the gentleman discussed this and that with the head of the radio station they were visiting. Harry was munching on an apple so big that it took both of his hands to hold as he peered curiously around the office and out the window to where the station workers were going about their jobs.

"— earl's favourite station, so he's willing to invest quite a bit provided the shares come reasonably priced," Harry heard Mr Higgs say. He looked back over to the present conversation to see that the head of the station looked positively thrilled.

The station they were currently visiting, Oracle Orbit, was one of the smaller ones — and considering wizarding radio stations by definition were terribly niche, this was saying something. The British Isles' most popular radio station was Wizarding Wireless Network, the first station to crop up by some enterprising half-blood who took the plunge to introduce the muggle invention to magical Britain and reworked it into an everyday wizarding function. The WWN now dominated the industry much like the Daily Prophet dominated the newspapers, and much like the Daily Prophet was, it was in the Ministry's back pocket — the BBC of the wizarding community, if you would. That meant other stations were basically all obscure and not at all as funded as they would like to be.

Now, Harry wasn't exactly an anarchist, but he'd been bred into a deep distaste for all things government-based because of how Vernon was such a gung-ho loyalist. This meant Harry wasn't very enthused with the WWN whenever he caught a listen of it, and that was fairly often since the wireless was more or less the wizarding equivalent to the telly at the moment — every home and workplace had at least one. Call him contrary, but he was willing to spend good money to get at least one other station more prominence, just to diversify the industry a bit.

Plus, this station happened to be operating from within Heorshire as well, so it was only good sense for Harry to support a business within his jurisdiction. Stimulate the economy and all that. If they could get the station to be actual competition to the WWN, they'd be looking at significant profits.

"— just a small operation, sir," said the station head, sounding embarrassed but eager, "only a few years in on the scene—"

On the other side of the main working area was the broadcasting studio. Harry could see a woman with bright hair at work, and the sound of her voice could be heard faintly from beyond the door.

"MA 427 Oracle Orbit, your one-stop station for uncensored music and news, from the Weird Sisters to up-and-coming artists, from the latest in entertainment to current events," the woman said swiftly, the words perfunctory but evenly enunciated. "I'm your host this afternoon, Pentecost Bloom, and this . . . is Auditory Autopsy — a segment here at Oracle Orbit where I drag a body up from the morgue, take a scalpel to the song or artist, and start slicing away to give you a thorough examination on why it's so awful. Today on the cutting table is—"

Oh, Harry liked this one! Ms Bloom had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, and while he didn't always think the music was as bad as she made them out to be, it was always funny to hear her go off. Morag had been hooked as soon as he'd introduced her, and she'd taken to recording episodes of Auditory Autopsy to re-listen to at her leisure.

"—show the earl the estimate, but I can't foresee him doing anything but agreeing immediately," said Mr Higgs. "I've heard nothing but praise from him concerning your station. I suspect he'll happily sponsor better equipment as soon as the contract is signed."

Harry looked back over to the two talking men in time to see them standing and shaking hands. He took another bite of his apple and ambled back from the office window.

"Well, then, who is this?" said the station manager cheerily. He was a pleasantly plump man who looked to be around the same age that Quirrell had been — that is, the age Erised now appeared to be. "I don't believe we've properly met, young man! Maxwell Bittesby, how do you do?"

Mr Higgs' eyes crinkled and he settled a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Ah, I apologize for not introducing you, this is my lo— Ahem!" he coughed, covering his slip, the hand on Harry's shoulder tightening momentarily. Bringing a handkerchief from his pocket with his other hand, he covered his mouth and cleared his throat. "Goodness! Sorry — something in my throat. This i-is Milo — Milo Higgs, my nephew."

What a save. If Harry wasn't in on it, he might have bought it, too.

"He'o, sir," Harry said thickly around his mouthful, bowing a bit. "'m Mi'o."

Mr Higgs patted him fondly.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," he scolded lightly.

Mr Bittesby showed them around the station then. There were a couple broadcasting studios, an equipment room, and what your would expect from an ordinary office building. It was not large by any means — modest, really — but things were neatly tended, and the station workers looked efficient.

Harry finished his apple as Ms Bloom finished off her segment and set some music playing. Another host went to take her place, and she came out of the studio with a faintly tired expression.

"Oh, oh! Can I ask Ms Bloom to sign my marble-player?" Harry asked, bouncing on his toes and tugging at Mr Higgs' sleeve. He pulled his music device from his trouser pocket and waved it eagerly. "My friend's birthday is coming up, and she really likes Ms Bloom's show, too!"

Ms Bloom looked over with wide blinking eyes.

"Max . . . ?" she said, looking to Mr Bittesby, expression confused and flattered.

"Penny, come meet Mr Higgs!" said Mr Bittesby, grinning. "He's here representing a future shareholder and sponsor!"

Ms Bloom's eyes went wider, as did the eyes of the handful of workers present.

"A sponsor?" she echoed, as if hardly daring to believe it.

"Yes, yes! Apparently Earl Heorshire is a fan of what we do here! Isn't that fantastic?"

"The EARL?!" was yelped, gasped, and exclaimed in near-perfect tandem.

"It's not set in stone just yet, but it's essentially a sure thing," said Mr Higgs pleasantly. "My lord was the one who insisted we reach out after all." He then smiled at Harry knowingly and nodded. "Go ahead."

Harry approached Ms Bloom as they all talked excitedly to each other. He held up his marble-player hopefully. She was remarkably tall for a woman, and Harry felt like a child half his age standing in front of her.

"Can you address it to Morag, ma'am?"

Ms Bloom took the music device as if in a daze and signed as requested, visibly awed.

Mr Higgs had another appointment scheduled, so they soon made their exit.

"Do you intend to boost their ratings by doing interviews in the future, young master?" said Mr Higgs, offering his hand to Harry so they could Apparate away. "If you do so exclusively, you could lock in fixed interest."

"You've read my mind, sir," Harry replied as he took the offered hand, grinning up at the man.

"Off to the publisher of that book series about you, then?"

Harry swung the joined hands between them and nodded.

With a turn and a crack, they were off.


It should be made known that while, yes, the wards around Potter Manor (more publicly known as Hindsmoor Keep) were up-to-date and meticulously tuned, the true security of the place was maintained by the resident house-elves. Potter elves were already a rambunctious lot, and after losing a generation of their masters far too soon to war and then being without their current master for a decade, they were more than a little aggressive in preserving him however they could. This meant guard-duty was a permanent secondary task at all times for all elves.

Which meant when a certain well-intentioned elf from another family appeared on the grounds in search of Harry, it was all hands on deck immediately.

Harry walked into his bedroom to change after poking around in the yard only to find all seven of his elves dog-piled on and tussling with an elf that was not his. There was biting, there was ear-pulling, there were shrieks and name-calling and, bloody hell, okay, where did the whip come?

"Right," said Harry, taking the sight in. "I'll come back later then, yeah?"

He stepped back out into the hallway and was closing the door again when, Bimmy, his head house-elf — the one with the whip — darted forward, crying, "Young master, sir! What should we be doing with the nasty intruder?!"

Harry didn't have an immediate answer, though he was inclined to go with something that didn't involve a whip. (Why did that thing break off into a tassel at the end?)

"Dobby is not nasty!" the unknown elf protested, voice muffled around the forearm across his mouth. "Dobby is only wanting to warn Harry Potter of danger!"

"Nasty, nasty Dobby is danger!" screeched Leelou, Harry's cook, clawing at Dobby's left leg.

". . . danger?" Harry echoed, edging back into the room. "Okay, you lot — maybe let him up? If you really must restrain him, just keep a hold of his arms or something."

Mulishly, Harry's elves did as requested. Mimsy (who had been the one holding Dobby in a choke-hold and muzzling Dobby with his arm) latched onto Dobby's left arm, and Bimmy took hold of Dobby's right, handing Harry the . . . the whip.

Sigh.

Harry took it reluctantly.

"H-Harry Potter, sir . . ." Dobby warbled, eyes buggy and teary, looking at Harry worshipfully.

"Erm, hello," said Harry, taking a seat at his work-desk. He straddled the chair, laid the you-know-what across his thighs, and rested his chin on the cushion of his folded hands. "I hope this matter isn't just a minor danger. Not to sound ungrateful, but I'd hate for you to have come all this way and dealt with the less-than-friendly reception of my staff just for something like . . . oh, I dunno — someone planning on sending me jinx'd mail."

And out poured a flood of words — half information, half wails about Dobby's "Bad Master," and somehow also half embarrassing praise of Harry himself.

Harry's elves were torn. On one hand, they were glad they were gaining foreknowledge of someone plotting plots that could endanger their master, even if it was coming from someone they didn't know if they could trust — who also dared to break into their home. On the other hand, it didn't sit well with them that Dobby was saying such negative things about his master; loyalty to their House was a house-elf's pride — either Dobby really was a bad elf (and thus untrustworthy) or his master was the sort of wizard that not even House Loyalty could make an elf at the very least hold their tongue about their discontent.

But Dobby very obviously admired their young master Harry, and so clearly Dobby couldn't be bad. . . .

"— so Harry Potter, really, really, really cannot go back to Hogwarts!" Dobby ended with a wail. "Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!"

"This definitely sounds serious," said Harry after a moment. He was rather at a loss. "So this has something to do with your master? He's the one that's plotting against me?"

Dobby made a funny choking noise and strained against the hands holding him.

"Dobby must punish himself!" Dobby cried, trying to free himself. "Dobby has spoken badly about Bad Master!"

"Whoa, okay — hold him tight!" Harry instructed, eyes wide as Dobby struggled. His elves did as commanded. He frowned heavily. "I don't know how this is normally done, but my elves aren't made to hurt themselves if they happen to say something negative about me, and I'm not about to let you do so on the behalf of a guy that sounds like a real arsehole."

"Mimsy would absolutely bang his head against the wall if he said bad things about Young Master!" Mimsy cried passionately even as he restrained Dobby accordingly. The other Potter elves proclaimed their intentions as well.

"Wha—? Alright, no. No, there will be absolutely none of that!" Harry said sharply. "There will be no self-harm in this house — or anywhere else! I can't imagine any of you doing anything that I would think needs punishment, but you're not allowed to hurt yourselves on purpose!"

"Harry Potter is such a kind master!" Dobby breathed, face awed.

". . . I am really uncomfortable with the fact that you think saying, 'you shouldn't physically beat the shite out of yourself' qualifies as kindness."

An unpleasant thought struck him.

"Hang on — your master isn't another minion of Vol— sorry — a minion of You-Know-Who, is he?" asked Harry, thinking back to Quirrellmort.

It would be just his luck if more of Voldemort's goons came around looking for trouble. Of course, they couldn't be as bad as the bastard himself, could they? But then again, Voldemort didn't actually have a body of his own at the time, and he still almost killed Harry, and this minion not only had his own body but was established enough to have at least one house-elf. Now, having a house-elf didn't necessarily mean anything beyond having some money (since one could purchase a house-elf from the relocation department of the Ministry, according to Mr Higgs), but House Loyalty of the likes Dobby was showing despite obviously not liking his master implied an Old Money family — Mimsy's explanation on how house-elves came about backed that.

Dobby's master had to be from an Old House at the very least if not a Noble and/or Ancient one. Not at all Harry's first choice to have trying to do him in; the bastard had a good chance of pulling strings to cover his tracks — rich arseholes were always doing that, weren't they?

Slowly, Dobby nodded his head, looking ready to cry.

"Bad Master has the mark of the Dark Lord," he whispered as if hardly daring to even admit such a thing.

Dammit.

"So, more evil bullshit to do with V— You-Know-Who," Harry sighed. He'd thought the matter would have been well and truly done with since Erised ate the evil wanker.

"Not — not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir —" Dobby's eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Harry a hint.

Harry, however, was now completely lost.

"He hasn't got a brother, has he?" Who else would be able to bully a minion of Voldemort's into action?

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

"Well, what other reason could one of his followers have to muck around with Hogwarts then?" said Harry. "Wouldn't be worth the effort, would it? He'd be better off trying something during the summer months if he's aiming for me. I mean, Hogwarts has Dumbledore, and all the other professors, and the wards — the strongest in Britain. Here, Dobby, I really don't think whatever your master has planned will get very far; I can't imagine what anyone could do that could stir up trouble at Hogwarts with all that going against him — especially if it doesn't have anything to do with You-Know-Who himself."

Dobby bowed his head.

"Albus Dumbledore is the most powerful headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby has heard Dumbledore's powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, sir," — Dobby's voice dropped to an urgent whisper — "there are powers Dumbledore doesn't . . . powers no decent wizard . . ."

"You're saying this has a good chance of working even with the headmaster and all the professors there," said Harry, astonished. "But how could an outsider even—? Wait, is he one of the Board of Governors or something?" How else could anyone get something through the protects around the school if not a student or staff? Even parents couldn't just get in!

Dobby keened like a puppy whose tail was trodden on, hopping up and down as much as he could.

"Should I take that as a 'yes'? Perhaps we should try charades?"

Any potential interpretive dance was belayed by Erised knocking and entering with his face buried in a magazine.

"Just found this interesting job listing!" Erised exclaimed, his eyes glued to what he was reading. "I know you said I don't need to concern myself with earning wages, but this position sounds like some—" His words cut short as he saw what it was he'd walked into.

Erised eyed the house-elves holding their house-elf captive; eyed Harry in his seat; eyed the bloody whip.

"Bit spicier than I would have thought your kinks would be," he said after a moment. "Also, don't you think you're still a little young for this?"

". . . I never want to hear the word 'kink' come from your mouth ever again," said Harry, aghast and appalled. "And I don't know what you think I'm getting up to in my free time, but this isn't a scene, it's an interrogation."

"Ah. Good to know. I don't know how legal it would be for a wizard to have relations with a Being that's functionally property. I fear it would be skirting along bestiality."

Harry shrieked and covered his ears with his hands, screeching, "LA-LA-LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" He got up from his seat in his flurry of disgust, knocking the chair to the ground and pushing books off his desk in the process.

Dobby screamed like a rabbit being strangled.

"WHERE DID HARRY POTTER GET THE BAD BOOK?!" He ripped an arm free from Mimsy in the shock of all the sounds and pointed urgently at the innocuous black journal that had fallen to the floor with the rest of the books there. He wasn't free for long, though — Mimsy soon recaptured the errant limb.

"Bad book?" said Harry at the same time Erised asked, "What's all this then?"

Harry explained that there was apparently a plot against him. Or was it Hogwarts? Dobby couldn't really explain it very well, for obvious reasons. Perhaps it was just a general danger to Hogwarts, and Dobby came to tell Harry specifically because . . . hero-worship? It certainly looked an awful lot like hero-worship.

"And it has something to do with this book?" mused Erised, crouching to pick up said book.

"Bad book, bad book, bad book . . . !" Dobby muttered, eyes wild, twitching.

They didn't get much more out of him after that. Poor thing had arrived highly stressed, and they hadn't exactly relieved him of his burden any since then. All that Dobby could reliably assure was that the seemingly-ordinary journal Harry had picked up off the street at Diagon was a key piece of the plot.

And so they decided they might as well destroy it. Harry lit it on fire on the stop.

Alarmingly, it did not burn.

It was also resistant to a number of other methods of destruction. Harry didn't mean to brag, but he could be quite creative when it came to the demolition of property. Alas — none of Harry's brilliant ideas worked.

Long after Dobby was released to return to his master, and the Potter elves went back to their regular tasks, the only thing else Harry or Erised could think to do with the blasted book was to hide it away in Erised's lamp.

It could hardly cause any harm tucked away from the world in a dimensional subspace, could it?


The main problem with Harry going back to school lied in the fact that . . . Erised wasn't technically allowed to go with him, what with being physically a grown adult and all. Now, this might not sound like a problem at first considering both Harry and Erised wanted Erised to experience the world as much as he could, but . . . Erised didn't really know how to go about that by himself.

As a hominine pseudo-flesh amalgam that would likely be classified as a Non-Being like boggarts and poltergeists if the Ministry ever caught wind of the reality of his existence, Erised didn't really have much experience in what it was that a human being like he appeared to be would do. Centuries of ever-cognizant semi-sentience aside, the only concept of humanity he could claim as his own was the patchworked, transmogrified solute of knowledge assimilated from the remains of Quirrellmort; outer appearance aside, Erised was still primarily a consortium of the inanimate objects that had been hidden away within him before he subsumed them during his transcendence. Magical constructs, as a general rule, weren't really equipped upon creation with the same driving instincts as living beings towards certain goals and tasks. Erised was curious and excited about living as an animate creature, but he didn't really know to go about achieving that in actual step-by-step processes on his own.

There were tentative plans for him to try out careers and pastimes, and he already had some hobbies, but regular human interaction? By himself? What if he forgot to blink? What if he forgot to react to temperature and pain? Wizards were more forgiving about such things than Muggles, but that could still get him reported to the authorities if it happened often enough.

And so they got their hands on a pair of Vanishing Pouches. Like Vanishing Cabinets, the pouches were linked so that when an item was placed in one pouch, it appeared in the other one. With these, they could send Erised's lamp vessel between them — meaning they could be in direct contact instantly whenever the need arose. When Erised needed to talk to Harry, he was to send over the lamp, and then either appear before Harry as he pleased or wait to be summoned.

Harry attached a thin chain to his and wore it affixed to a belt-loop like a chain wallet to ensure he never lost it. He would have kept it in his mokeskin pouch, but it was a big no-no to keep items with their internal dimensions enchanted within each other.

"What's this?" said Morag, eyeing the new 'accessory' with a humorous glance when it was revealed as Harry hoisted himself up into a storage rack. "Going through a rebellious phase now?"

They were back on the Express headed for school. Harry had met up with his friends at the station, and they got on to find a compartment together when the last of them (Justin) finally arrived.

Harry made a face at Morag as he stretched out sideways and propped his head up against his hand.

"I've a pouch I don't fancy risking to lose — sue me," he said with an eye-roll.

"Didn't you already have a wallet?" asked Justin, settling in a window seat. "Bit extravagant of you, isn't it? How much money do you really need to carry on you?"

"Bloody rich people," Dean muttered, shoving his trunk up on the other rack. "You really assumed off the bat it was for money?"

"Well, what else would he put in a pouch chained to him? What else would even fit? Marbles?"

"Your muggle-born is showing," said Morag with a scoff. "Space-Expansion charms are as common as barn owls, you know?"

"Your pure-blood is showing," Justin shot back, lifting his nose. "Harry was raised muggle, wasn't he? Why should I assume he'd think to expand it?"

"Your common birth is showing," Morag taunted. "Harry's from a Noble House — he wouldn't have to enchant one himself or even buy one, his family no doubt has a stockpile of them just sitting around."

"Your blood-classism is showing!" Justin retorted, sitting up straighter, steadily getting louder. "There is absolutely nothing common about my birth, thank you very much! I was set to attend Eton before my Hogwarts letter came, and—!"

Dean sighed loudly.

"Girls, girls, you're both pretty! I'm sure everyone knows you're both the smartest and the best in your own special ways," he said, simpering falsely at them. He rolled his eyes hard enough to give himself eye-strain and turned to Harry. "Why is it that you're the real moneybags around here, and yet they're the nobs?"

That course of conversation cut out as Seamus and Ron showed up, Ron being trailed by his sister and the Lovegood girl. The boys were greeted cheerfully with slaps on the back, and the girls were given pleasant nods and hellos. The compartment might have felt crowded with eight people in there if it wasn't for Harry reclining on his rack like a lazy gargoyle.

"You seriously gonna take up the entire rack by yourself?" Seamus complained up at Harry, dropping his carry-on with a thud.

"Quite your moaning, there's plenty of space," said Harry with an imperious wave of his free hand. "These compartments can seat and accommodate eighth seventh-years with the elbow-rests up."

"Is it very comfortable up there?" asked Lovegood, looking at Harry's position in fascination with those ever-wide eyes of hers. "Daddy doesn't like me going up into high places, but that looks like a very good place to see if anyone has Woodileys nesting in their hair."

Harry didn't know what Woodileys were, but he didn't really think he wanted to know either.

"Lot more comfortable than I thought it would be when I first tried it," Harry said instead. "Reckon they got cushioning charms of some sort on these things. You want a hand up?"

Lovegood barely hesitated, nodding and climbing up onto the seats at once. Harry rolled into a sitting position and braced himself lest he fall before offering the girl his hand to pull her up. Lovegood was pulled along easily enough, and she was soon seated beside Harry, crossed-legged as well.

"Oh, this is very nice," she exclaimed, smiling down at the rest of the compartment. "No, Woodileys, though," she added, sounded disappointed.

Conversation drifted into various topics, mostly what they'd all been doing that summer.

Luna with all her dottiness proved to be great fun to talk to. Harry was pretty sure a good chunk of the creatures she referenced were more speculation than fact, but Harry and Morag were Ravenclaws — idle speculation involving hypothetical components were their bread and butter. Harry would be supremely shocked if Luna didn't end up in Ravenclaw, too; she slot in with Harry and Morag so well.

Luna and Morag got on surprisingly well in fact. One wouldn't expect it at face-value with Luna being a misty-eyed mooncalf, and Morag being a hard-face Laestrygonian, but it was so. Morag had little patience for Harry's nonsense, but when it came to Luna she apparently had plenty to spare. Of course, Harry wasn't a cute little girl, and Luna was, so that might have had something to do with it.

When it was time to vacate the train again, they had pretty much adopted Luna. They ended up walking hand-in-hand with her to where the first-years were to be boated over to the school and waving her a fond farewell before making for the carriages with the rest of their friends.


AN: Please go to my Tumblr (high-pot-in-noose) to find my post on the new update schedule for this fic as well as others, and to find out how you can view advanced chapter updates.