Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at
number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in
the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew
Harry's room.
"Third time this week!" he roared across the table. "If you can't control
that owl, it'll have to go!"
Harry tried, yet again, to explain.
"She's bored," he said. "She's used to flying around outside. If I could
just let her out at night —"
"Do I look stupid?" snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling
from his bushy mustache. "I know what'll happen if that owl's let out."
He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.
Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned by a long, loud
belch from the Dursleys' son, Dudley.
"I want more bacon."
"There's more in the frying pan, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia, turning
misty eyes on her massive son. "We must build you up while we've got the
chance. . . . I don't like the sound of that school food. . . ."
"Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings," said
Uncle Vernon heartily. "Dudley gets enough, don't you, son?"
Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the
kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harry.
"Pass the frying pan."
"You've forgotten the magic word," said Harry irritably.
The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was
incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the
whole kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to
her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.
"I meant 'please'!" said Harry quickly. "I didn't mean —"
"WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU," thundered his uncle, spraying spit over
the table, "ABOUT SAYING THE 'M' WORD IN OUR HOUSE?"
"But I —"
"HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!" roared Uncle Vernon,
pounding the table with his fist.
"I just —"
"I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR
ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!"
Harry stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale aunt, who was
trying to heave Dudley to his feet.
"All right," said Harry, "all right . . ."
Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and
watching Harry closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.
Ever since Harry had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle
Vernon had been treating him like a bomb that might go off at any
moment, because Harry Potter wasn't a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he
was as not normal as it is possible to be.
Harry Potter was a wizard — a wizard fresh from his first year at
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were
unhappy to have him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry
felt.
He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant
stomachache. He missed the castle, with its secret passageways and
ghosts, his classes (though perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the
mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in his
four-poster bed in the tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in
his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially,
Quidditch, the most popular sport in the Wizarding world (six tall
goalposts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).
All Harry's spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line
Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under
the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did the
Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House Quidditch team because
he hadn't practiced all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went
back to school without any of his homework done? The Dursleys were
what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins),
and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a
matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry's owl,
Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in
the Wizarding world.
Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large
and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-
faced and bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on the other
hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet-black hair
that was always untidy. He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a
thin, lightning-shaped scar.
It was this scar that made Harry so particularly unusual, even for a
wizard. This scar was the only hint of Harry's very mysterious past, of the
reason he had been left on the Dursleys' doorstep eleven years before.
At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow survived a curse from
the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most
witches and wizards still feared to speak. Harry's parents had died in
Voldemort's attack, but Harry had escaped with his lightning scar, and
somehow — nobody understood why — Voldemort's powers had been
destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harry.
So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother's sister and her
husband. He had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding
why he kept making odd things happen without meaning to, believing the
Dursleys' story that he had got his scar in the car crash that had killed his
parents.
And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harry, and the
whole story had come out. Harry had taken up his place at wizard school,
where he and his scar were famous . . . but now the school year was over,
and he was back with the Dursleys for the summer, back to being treated
like a dog that had rolled in something smelly.
The Dursleys hadn't even remembered that today happened to be
Harry's twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn't been high; they'd
never given him a real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it
completely . . .
At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat importantly and said,
"Now, as we all know, today is a very important day."
Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.
"This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career," said
Uncle Vernon.
Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought bitterly, Uncle
Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He'd been talking of
nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to
dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle
Vernon's company made drills).
"I think we should run through the schedule one more time," said Uncle
Vernon. "We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be
— ?"
"In the lounge," said Aunt Petunia promptly, "waiting to welcome them
graciously to our home."
"Good, good. And Dudley?"
"I'll be waiting to open the door." Dudley put on a foul, simpering
smile. "May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"
"They'll love him!" cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.
"Excellent, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry.
"And you?"
"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there,"
said Harry tonelessly.
"Exactly," said Uncle Vernon nastily. "I will lead them into the lounge,
introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen —"
"I'll announce dinner," said Aunt Petunia.
"And, Dudley, you'll say —"
"May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?" said Dudley,
offering his fat arm to an invisible woman.
"My perfect little gentleman!" sniffed Aunt Petunia.
"And you?" said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.
"I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there,"
said Harry dully.
"Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at
dinner. Petunia, any ideas?"
"Vernon tells me you're a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason. . . . Do tell me
where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason. . . ."
"Perfect . . . Dudley?"
"How about — 'We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr.
Mason, and I wrote about you.'"
This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry. Aunt Petunia burst
into tears and hugged her son, while Harry ducked under the table so they
wouldn't see him laughing.
"And you, boy?"
Harry fought to keep his face straight as he emerged.
"I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he
said.
"Too right, you will," said Uncle Vernon forcefully. "The Masons don't
know anything about you and it's going to stay that way. When dinner's
over, you take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I'll
bring the subject around to drills. With any luck, I'll have the deal signed
and sealed before the news at ten. We'll be shopping for a vacation home
in Majorca this time tomorrow."
Harry couldn't feel too excited about this. He didn't think the Dursleys
would like him any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.
"Right — I'm off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and
me. And you," he snarled at Harry. "You stay out of your aunt's way while
she's cleaning."
Harry left through the back door. It was a brilliant, sunny day. He
crossed the lawn, slumped down on the garden bench, and sang under his
breath:
"Happy birthday to me . . . happy birthday to me . . ."
No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the evening pretending
not to exist. He gazed miserably into the hedge. He had never felt so
lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing
Quidditch, Harry missed his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione
Granger. They, however, didn't seem to be missing him at all. Neither of
them had written to him all summer, even though Ron had said he was
going to ask Harry to come and stay.
Countless times, Harry had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig's
cage by magic and sending her to Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it
wasn't worth the risk. Underage wizards weren't allowed to use magic
outside of school. Harry hadn't told the Dursleys this; he knew it was only
their terror that he might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped them
from locking him in the cupboard under the stairs with his wand and
broomstick. For the first couple of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed
muttering nonsense words under his breath and watching Dudley tearing
out of the room as fast as his fat legs would carry him. But the long silence
from Ron and Hermione had made Harry feel so cut off from the magical
world that even taunting Dudley had lost its appeal — and now Ron and
Hermione had forgotten his birthday.
What wouldn't he give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any
witch or wizard? He'd almost be glad of a sight of his archenemy, Draco
Malfoy, just to be sure it hadn't all been a dream. . . .
Not that his whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of
last term, Harry had come face-to-face with none other than Lord
Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he
was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. Harry
had slipped through Voldemort's clutches for a second time, but it had
been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Harry kept waking in the
night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now,
remembering his livid face, his wide, mad eyes —
Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. He had been
staring absent-mindedly into the hedge — and the hedge was staring back.
Two enormous green eyes had appeared among the leaves.
Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn.
"I know what day it is," sang Dudley, waddling toward him.
The huge eyes blinked and vanished.
"What?" said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot where they had
been.
"I know what day it is," Dudley repeated, coming right up to him.
"Well done," said Harry. "So you've finally learned the days of the
week."
"Today's your birthday," sneered Dudley. "How come you haven't got
any cards? Haven't you even got friends at that freak place?"
"Better not let your mum hear you talking about my school," said Harry
coolly.
Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping down his fat
bottom.
"Why're you staring at the hedge?" he said suspiciously.
"I'm trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire," said
Harry.
Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his fat face.
"You c-can't — Dad told you you're not to do m-magic — he said he'll
chuck you out of the house — and you haven't got anywhere else to go —
you haven't got any friends to take you —"
"Jiggery pokery!" said Harry in a fierce voice. "Hocus pocus —
squiggly wiggly —"
"MUUUUUUM!" howled Dudley, tripping over his feet as he dashed
back toward the house. "MUUUUM! He's doing you know what!"
Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor the
hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt Petunia knew he hadn't really done
magic, but he still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at his head with
the soapy frying pan. Then she gave him work to do, with the promise he
wouldn't eat again until he'd finished.
While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice cream, Harry
cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flower
beds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. The
sun blazed overhead, burning the back of his neck. Harry knew he
shouldn't have risen to Dudley's bait, but Dudley had said the very thing
Harry had been thinking himself . . . maybe he didn't have any friends at
Hogwarts. . . .
Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he thought savagely as he
spread manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat running down
his face.
It was half past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, he heard
Aunt Petunia calling him.
"Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!"
Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On top of
the fridge stood tonight's pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream and
sugared violets. A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.
"Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!" snapped Aunt Petunia,
pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table.
She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress.
Harry washed his hands and bolted down his pitiful supper. The moment
he had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away his plate. "Upstairs! Hurry!"
As he passed the door to the living room, Harry caught a glimpse of
Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. He had only just
reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Vernon's
furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.
"Remember, boy — one sound —"
Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe, slipped inside, closed the door,
and turned to collapse on his bed.
The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.