The Theory of Magic: The Vanishing Hall (Year 2)

2 | House-Elves & House Arrest

Harry was having the worst summer of his life.

It hadn't started that way. If anything, the beginning of Harry's summer had been one of the best in memory; absolutely nothing beat terrifying his cousin Dudley by mumbling nonsense under his breath and watching the great lump run pell-mell into the house. Teasing him lost its appeal, though, the fourth or fifth time around, and Aunt Petunia kept screeching at him like he was some kind of terrible hellion. Aunt Petunia wasn't afraid, not really, not after living with Harry's mum as a child. The chores multiplied for him, and soon enough Dudley was back to punching Harry in the arm and throwing an absolute fit whenever he entered the dining room.

In the past, Harry had been able to abide his treatment at his relatives' hands by daydreaming about when he'd finally be able to leave or about nonsensical things that would turn his uncle's face a vile shade of puce if he knew what Harry was thinking. After spending a year at Hogwarts, after learning magic and meeting friends and facing Lord Voldemort, the man who had killed his parents and almost killed him and Ron, Hermione, and their Magical Theory professor, Harry felt restless and time went by slowly in that house. No one had written since the summer's beginning. He watched the skies and no owl ever came. His school things had been locked up beneath the stairs in his old cupboard the moment he crossed the threshold. If not for Hedwig, Harry might have thought Hogwarts a fantastical dream.

For all that, however, Harry's summer didn't truly hit rock bottom until a certain green-eyed house-elf introduced himself.

Harry had no idea what a house-elf was until Dobby popped into the smallest bedroom of Number Four and squealed "Mr. Harry Potter, sir!" Really, Harry still didn't precisely know what a house-elf was besides a meddling little thing with a high-pitched voice who sobbed whenever someone treated him with manners and liked to beat himself over the head with lamps. Dobby had been nicking his mail all summer—and then hurled a pudding at Uncle Vernon's dinner guests after tearfully informing Harry that he must not return to Hogwarts, that great danger waited for him there. In retrospect, Harry was fairly certain he should have smothered his Gryffindor pride and lied to the little creature instead of proclaiming "Hogwarts is my home, and I'm going back!"

The Ministry owl dropping a letter that informed the Dursleys Harry couldn't do magic outside of school was just the proverbial cherry on top of the splattered pudding.

Harry had been trapped in his room for days. It felt like years, really, but he knew years hadn't actually passed—though sometimes he'd pat his chin to make sure he wasn't sprouting a beard like Dumbledore. He missed chores and working in the garden, if only to take his mind off the boring numbness that was sitting in his bedroom, alone, for hours and hours on end, with only two short bathroom breaks to shake up the monotony. Occasionally his aunt shoved food through the cat flap at the bottom of the door, but Harry couldn't measure time by the irregularity of his meals. His stomach clenched with hunger and Hedwig looked thin under the fluff of her white feathers.

Uncle Vernon swore Harry would never go back to Hogwarts. He swore that Harry would spend the rest of his life in that room—and it felt that way to him, too. He would rather die than live like this.

Harry sighed as he dropped his head on the bed at his back. He sat on the floor, dressed in his cousin's cast-offs and in need of a good shower. Dawn waited just past the horizon, the street lamps still vivid outside the bars on his window, the suburb still slumbering. Harry couldn't sleep. He stared at the fading moonlight on the ceiling and rubbed his tired eyes. From the corner, Hedwig made an agitated sound.

"I know, girl," Harry soothed without thought. His owl had it worse off than he did, completely unable to fly and padlocked into a stinky little cage. He pushed himself onto his feet—blinking through a sudden spell of dizziness—and padded across the room to his imprisoned owl. Hedwig glared with baleful golden eyes before shuffling about on her perch, giving Harry her back. "I'm sorry, Hedwig. If I could—."