Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore, for one thing—you know who Dumbledore is, don’t you?”

Dobby bowed his head.

“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest 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…”

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Harry’s desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps.

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!”

“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging himself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.

“What—the—devil—are—you—doing?” said Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke… One more sound and you’ll wish you’d never been born, boy!”

He stomped flat footed from the room.

Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.

“See what it’s like here?” he said. “See why I’ve got to go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I’ve got—well, I think I’ve got friends.”

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” said Dobby slyly.

“I expect they’ve just been—wait a minute,” said Harry, frowning. “How do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”

Dobby shuffled his feet.

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best…”

“Have you been stopping my letters?”

“Dobby has them here, sir,” said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of Harry’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Harry could make out Hermione’s neat writing, Ron’s untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid.

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry… Dobby hoped… if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him… Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir…”

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But he stopped quickly, because thinking about Hermione was painful.	\|	Harry wasn’t listening. He made a grab for the letters, but Dobby jumped out of reach.

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