CHAPTER TWO
“What — the — devil — are — you — doing?” said Uncle Ver-
non 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, frown-
ing. “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. . . .”
Harry wasn’t listening. He made a grab for the letters, but
Dobby jumped out of reach.
“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word
18