The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor marked a turning point in Harry's life at Privet Drive. It was an act of rebellion against the suffocating confines of his existence, a brief taste of freedom that came at a steep price. The consequences were severe, and Harry found himself serving his longest-ever punishment locked away in the suffocating darkness of his cupboard under the stairs.
As the days dragged on, the summer holidays began, casting a stifling heat over Privet Drive. While Harry languished in confinement, Dudley wreaked havoc with his new possessions. The once pristine video camera lay shattered, its lens cracked like a spider's web. The remote control airplane, once soaring through the skies, now lay in pieces on the ground, a sad reminder of Dudley's careless abandon. And on his brand new racing bike, Dudley careened through the streets, leaving chaos in his wake. In a cruel twist of fate, he collided with old Mrs. Figg, the elderly neighbor, as she struggled across the road on her crutches, her startled cries echoing down the quiet suburban street.
Harry longed for the respite of school, where he could escape the stifling atmosphere of the Dursley household, if only for a few hours each day. But even there, he was not safe. Dudley's gang, a troupe of bullies led by the portly ringleader himself, invaded the house with relentless frequency. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon, all towering over Harry like giants, followed Dudley's lead without question. They reveled in the cruelty of their leader, eager participants in the twisted game of "Harry Hunting," where Harry was the unwilling quarry in their relentless pursuit of torment.
Harry's desperate desire to escape the stifling confines of the Dursley household propelled him out into the world as often as possible. Each step away from Number Four, Privet Drive felt like a liberation, a brief respite from the oppressive atmosphere that permeated every corner of his existence.
The familiar path down Privet Drive, with its neatly trimmed lawns and prim houses, offered a temporary reprieve from the suffocating grip of his aunt and uncle. As Harry ventured further, the air seemed to shift, carrying with it the faint scent of freedom. He followed the winding road onto Wisteria Walk, where the quietude of the suburban street enveloped him like a comforting blanket.
Passing by Mrs. Figg's house, a decrepit abode shrouded in faded blue paint, Harry wrinkled his nose at the unmistakable odor of mothballs and cat litter that hung thick in the air. It was a necessary discomfort, a small price to pay for the solitude that awaited him beyond. With each step, he left behind the cacophony of Dudley's gang and the oppressive presence of his relatives.
As Harry continued onto Magnolia Crescent, the warmth of the sun bathed him in its golden embrace, casting long shadows across the pavement. Here, amidst the tranquil surroundings, Harry found solace in the quietude of his own thoughts. Away from the prying eyes of Dudley and his cohorts, he could finally breathe freely, allowing his mind to wander without fear of interruption or ridicule.
In these precious moments of solitude, Harry contemplated the imminent end of the summer holidays. September loomed on the horizon, promising a glimmer of change in the monotonous rhythm of his life. Secondary school beckoned, offering a tantalizing glimpse of a future beyond the confines of Privet Drive. For the first time, Harry dared to entertain the possibility of a world without Dudley, a world where he could forge his own path free from the shadow of his cousin's tyranny.
Dudley's acceptance into Smeltings, Uncle Vernon's prestigious alma mater, had been cause for great celebration in the Dursley household. The news of Dudley's enrollment had echoed through the halls, accompanied by the triumphant clinking of champagne glasses. Piers Polkiss and the rest of Dudley's sycophantic gang would also be gracing the hallowed halls of Smeltings, their privileged futures seemingly assured.
Harry, ever the outsider, had stumbled upon this revelation by chance, his curiosity piqued by the muffled voices drifting from the other side of the door. Pressing his ear against the crack, he strained to catch every word, his lighter frame allowing him to blend seamlessly into the shadows.
As Uncle Vernon conversed with Piers' father over the phone, Harry hung on every word, his heart pounding in his chest. Though some of the conversation eluded him, the implications were clear: Dudley's inclusion in Smeltings had been secured, sealing his fate as a member of the elite. Meanwhile, Harry's own destiny lay in the hands of Stonewall High, a local public school devoid of the prestige and privilege afforded to its private counterparts.
Dudley wasted no time in reveling in his newfound superiority, his boisterous laughter ringing through the house like a triumphant fanfare. With every opportunity, he taunted Harry mercilessly, relishing in his perceived superiority. "They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he jeered, his words dripping with derision. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"
For Harry, Dudley's taunts were like salt in an open wound, a painful reminder of his status as an outsider in his own home. Yet, despite the sting of Dudley's words, Harry refused to cower in the face of his cousin's cruelty.
"No, thanks," said Harry, a smirk playing on his lips. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it—it might be sick." With a quick retort, Harry darted away before Dudley could muster a response, his heart pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and satisfaction.
As Harry sprinted down the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the linoleum floors, he couldn't help but feel a sense of liberation wash over him. Though the hallways of Privet Drive may have been familiar, they were also suffocating—a constant reminder of the suffocating grip the Dursleys held over him. But now, with each stride, Harry felt the weight of his worries begin to lift, replaced by a glimmer of hope for the future.
For truth be told, while Harry wasn’t necessarily excited at the prospect of school, he relished the idea of being somewhere—anywhere—that didn't include the suffocating presence of his aunt, uncle, or Dudley. With each passing day, the countdown to the start of term felt more like a countdown to freedom—a chance to escape the confines of Privet Drive and embark on a new chapter of his life.
A few weeks had passed since Harry's musings on that fateful July day, when Aunt Petunia had whisked Dudley away to London to purchase his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry in the care of Mrs. Figg. While the prospect of spending time with Mrs. Figg may not have initially seemed appealing, it had turned out to be a welcome respite from the stifling atmosphere of the Dursley household.
Upon his arrival at Mrs. Figg's, Harry had learned that she had broken her leg tripping over one of her many cats, a mishap that had confined her to the sofa for much of their time together. As Harry settled into the cozy confines of Mrs. Figg's living room, the television buzzed with the comforting hum of background noise, providing a soothing backdrop to their time together.
She had let Harry watch with no side comments, and told Harry he could treat himself to a chocolate cake she had set in the fridge. He had taken her up on her offer, but he did think that the chocolate cake had tasted as if it had been sitting in the fridge for several years.
That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life. They probably had some other intended use, but Harry himself sure didn’t see any other than see the purpose in it other than Dudley’s own.
As Harry observed Dudley in his new knickerbockers, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance at the extravagant display of pride from his aunt and uncle. Uncle Vernon's gruff declaration that it was the proudest moment of his life seemed comically exaggerated, and Aunt Petunia's tearful outburst over her "Ickle Dudleykins" bordered on the absurd.
“I swear,” Uncle Vernon proclaimed, puffing out his chest with false bravado, “It’s like looking in a mirror and seeing everything you could ever want.” His words dripped with a mixture of self-importance and delusion, as if Dudley's new attire was a testament to his own greatness rather than a mere reflection of his son's status.
The constant stream of compliments had left Dudley positively glowing with self-satisfaction, his ego inflated to even greater proportions than usual. The admiration from his parents seemed to fuel his sense of entitlement, giving him the confidence to assert his dominance over Harry and pursue more Harry Hunting later in the day.
As Harry observed the scene with a mixture of resignation and amusement, he couldn't help but wonder if Dudley's inflated sense of self-importance would ever deflate, or if he would forever be the golden child in the eyes of his doting parents.
Harry's mind buzzed with questions and uncertainties as he reflected on his Uncle Vernon's peculiar comment about mirrors. The memory of the glass disappearing at the zoo weeks ago still baffled him. How could it vanish so suddenly, without a trace? And what did Uncle Vernon mean by "like looking in a mirror"? Could it be possible that his reflection somehow triggered the glass's disappearance?
These perplexing thoughts plagued Harry throughout the day, casting a shadow over his usual interactions with Dudley. When Dudley attempted to taunt him, Harry remained unusually quiet and withdrawn, lost in his own contemplations. Dudley, sensing the lack of reaction, quickly grew bored and retreated to his room to indulge in his birthday video games.
The following morning, as Harry descended the stairs to the kitchen, he was met with a repugnant odor that assaulted his senses. It emanated from a large metal tub sitting in the sink, filled with murky water and what appeared to be soiled rags. The sight and smell were reminiscent of everything Harry associated with the Dursleys—dreary and mundane, much like Uncle Vernon's favorite color and his penchant for drab suits.
"What's this?" Harry inquired, peering into the large metal tub sitting in the sink, the pungent smell assaulting his nostrils.
Aunt Petunia's lips formed a thin line, her expression tight with disapproval, a familiar reaction whenever Harry dared to question anything. "Your new school uniform," she responded curtly, her tone devoid of any warmth.
Harry squinted, trying to discern the contents of the bowl, the water sloshing around the clothes inside. "Oh," he muttered, his voice tinged with uncertainty, "I didn't realize it had to be so...wet."
"Don’t be smart," Aunt Petunia retorted sharply, her patience wearing thin. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished." Her words dripped with a mix of disdain and obligation, as if Harry's presence in their home was an inconvenience she had to begrudgingly accommodate.
Harry harbored serious doubts about Aunt Petunia's assurance, but he wisely chose to hold his tongue. He knew all too well that some battles were futile to wage, the outcome predetermined and the cost too steep. Sitting down at the table, he attempted to push aside thoughts of how he would appear on his first day at Stonewall High—likely resembling someone draped in weathered elephant hide. The anticipation of another school day failed to offer any respite from the oppressive atmosphere of Privet Drive.
As Dudley and Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen, both wrinkling their noses at the pungent odor emanating from Harry's makeshift uniform, Harry suppressed the urge to voice his inquiry. He suspected that any inquiry made in their presence would invariably be met with accusations directed squarely at him.
Their resemblance was uncanny, akin to looking into a distorted mirror. Uncle Vernon, as was his custom, buried himself behind the pages of his newspaper, while Dudley, brandishing his Smelting stick—his prized possession—against the table, exuded an air of entitlement. The sound of mail slot clicking open and letters thudding onto the doormat interrupted the quietude of the morning.
"Get the mail, Dudley," barked Uncle Vernon from behind the barrier of his newspaper, his voice a gruff command slicing through the morning air.
"Make Harry get it," Dudley retorted, a sneer tainting his features.
"Get the mail, Harry," Uncle Vernon's voice dripped with irritation.
"Make Dudley get it," Harry countered, a hint of defiance edging his words.
Uncle Vernon's exasperated sigh echoed in the kitchen as he briefly glanced at Dudley, silently pleading for cooperation. "Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley," he directed, resigning himself to the charade.
Harry deftly sidestepped the threatening jab of the Smelting stick and proceeded to retrieve the mail. Three items lay on the doormat, the first of which was a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge, detailing her vacation escapades on the Isle of Wight. Marge was a formidable presence—Harry had encountered her on a few occasions during her visits to her brother's home, each encounter leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The mere thought of her evoked memories of her tyrannical demeanor and unjustly harsh treatment towards him, leaving him to navigate the delicate balance of avoiding her wrath while enduring her oppressive presence in the Dursleys' guest bedroom.
He gingerly picked up the postcard, its glossy surface displaying a picturesque view of the Isle of Wight, where his Aunt Marge was currently enjoying her vacation escapades. As he shifted the postcard in his hand, his fingertips brushed against a weighty envelope concealed within a nondescript brown casing, resembling the mundane bills his Uncle Vernon meticulously handled. Despite his limited understanding of financial matters, Harry couldn't recall any instances where their bills had gone unpaid, a testament to Uncle Vernon's unwavering dedication to maintaining appearances.
The sight of the envelope stirred a whirlwind of emotions within Harry, causing his heart to somersault within his chest like a giant elastic band pulled taut. His mind raced with incredulity at the thought of receiving mail addressed to him. No one, in all his years of existence, had ever deemed him worthy of correspondence. Who could possibly be reaching out to him? With no friends to speak of and a lack of other relatives, Harry was an island unto himself, disconnected from the fabric of society. Even the local library had never extended the courtesy of sending him overdue notices, a fact that spoke volumes about his solitary existence. Yet, there it lay before him—a letter, its plain address leaving no room for doubt:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
The envelope Harry held in his hands exuded an aura of mystique, its thick and heavy texture hinting at secrets concealed within its folds. Its once vibrant hue had faded to a yellowish tinge, giving it an aged appearance that hinted at a long journey to reach its destination. The address, meticulously inscribed in emerald-green ink, glimmered under the ambient light, the color reminiscent of lush forest canopies glistening in the sun. Not a single stamp adorned the envelope, raising questions about its origins and the manner in which it had found its way to Privet Drive.
With bated breath, Harry turned the envelope over, his fingers trembling with anticipation. A gasp escaped his lips as his eyes fell upon a sight that further heightened the intrigue—a purple wax seal, bearing a coat of arms that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. A lion, regal and proud, stood opposite an eagle, its wings spread wide in a majestic display. Flanking them were a badger, its demeanor steadfast and resolute, and a snake, its serpentine form coiled in silent vigilance. Together, they encircled a large letter "H," its significance shrouded in mystery.
As Harry pondered the significance of the emblem, a pang of curiosity surged through him. Could the "H" signify him? Was this envelope meant for him alone? Before he could delve deeper into his musings, the sound of his Uncle Vernon's voice shattered the moment of contemplation, resonating from the kitchen with impatient urgency. "Hurry up, boy! What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" his uncle called out, his laughter punctuating the air with a blend of mockery and jest.
Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope.
Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard. "Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk—”
"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"
Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon before he could look at what it had said.
"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.
"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge. "P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise. "Vernon! Oh my goodness—Vernon!"
They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room.
Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick. "I want to read that letter," he said loudly.
“I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."
"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.
Harry didn't move. “I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted.
"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.
"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.
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"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address—how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?"
"Watching—spying—might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.
"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want—"
Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.
"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer...Yes, that's best...we won't do anything...”
"But—"
"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"
“...Yes, we certainly did,” responded Petunia.
~...~
That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.
"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"
"No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle Vernon shortly. "I have burned it."
"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard on it."
"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful. "Er—yes, Harry—about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking...you're really getting a bit big for it...we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom.
"Why?" said Harry.
"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."
The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, the guest bedroom that Marge had stayed in when she visited, one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him.
Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog. In the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled. There was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it.
Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched. Aunt Petunia had kept buying books for Dudley even though Harry was unsure that he had ever opened any of them. From some stolen conversations Harry had overheard that Petunia had spoken on the phone about how voracious a reader her Duddykins had been, a delusion so well guarded that Harry would almost feel worse for her about it if she were anyone else other than his Aunt Petunia
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I don't want him in there...I need that room...make him get out..."
Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have given anything to be up here. It was like a dream to have a place that could actually be considered a bedroom to be his bedroom. With how cramped the cupboard had been he had feared he would outgrow it to the point where he would be unable to even stand up properly. But today...today had been different. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it.
Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive—'"
With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand.
"Go to your cupboard—I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry, holding up a hand. "Dudley—go—just go."
Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure they didn't fail. He then began to hatch a plan.
The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. Like a cat in the night, his feet bounded down the stairs with the air of a thief.
He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door—Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat—something alive!
Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. His plan had been for naught—He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea.
Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink. Each with the coat of arms on the back. Each with the Big H marked in wax.
“I want—" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. He had a wild look in his eye Harry hadn’t seen before—he looked like he hadn’t gotten sleep since that first letter had arrived.
"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up! It’s foolproof."
"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon," Petunia’s voiced sounded harrowed. It was clear her mind was thinking on its own troubled storms that had been brewing due to the arrival of the letters.
"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. It had looked like they tried every conceivable opening into the house.
Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked, and jumped at small noises. His mustache had looked frayed as if it hadn’t been tended to the last few days—Petunia had not dared bring up the subject while Vernon was in his mood.
Harry had felt like the house was being slowly, but surely transformed into a prison from the inside out. He had already considered his old room—the cupboard—a cell in its own right, but the blockades and stops his Uncle Vernon installed seemed like an upgrade to maximum security.
On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. The scene itself would have made Harry laugh if the situation surrounding the depravity hadn’t been so targeted against him. The look on his Aunt Petunia’s face when she saw the eggs cracking to reveal the folded up envelopes had been so...unreal. Almost as unreal as the glass that had vanished at the zoo—or any number of mysterious things that have happened over the past couple of years.
While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.
"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry in amazement, watching the chaos unfold beside his cousin.
Harry simply shrugged, “I’d like to know as much as you.” And that might have been the first time Harry and Dudley shared a moment that could have agreed on anything. It was a weird situation and the both of them looked to each other—a silent vow to never do it again seemed to cross their look. They both returned to looking at Uncle Vernon tearing up another letter that had been found slotted underneath the back door.
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy. There was a look of pure contentment on his face. “Do you know what is so great about today, Harry?” He turned to him with that toothy grin plastered on his face.
“No post on Sundays,” Harry answered, glumly. His tone would have elicited an unwelcome response from Uncle Vernon in any other situation, but not today.
“That’s right,” Uncle Vernon chuckled. "No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully, "no damn letters today—"
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one. Following these came a downstream of what looked like hundreds of letters firing out like a full on barrage. Letters were flying all around the room due to the sheer force.
"Out! OUT!" Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor. There must have been at least a thousand of them in the time it took for these events to happen.
"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments! No talkback!"
He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. It was clear Uncle Vernon was at his breaking point—not even Aunt Petunia question him in this state. Ten minutes later Uncle Vernon had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car. The suitcases of what they had gathered—what Aunt Petunia and Dudley had gathered—rather—were tossed in the back with little care or regard as he slammed the trunk shut and the whole family and Harry packed in the car like sardines.
Uncle Vernon thrust his key into the ignition and started the small car up—pulling out and speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag. It was rare that Uncle Vernon showed any sort of discipline to his son—it was clear he was not prepared for it and so he had overdone it, clearly. Aunt Petunia had—in the few seconds she had, rubbed her Duddykins’ shoulder and gave him a peck on the cheek to assuage any possible tantrum.
They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they were going. She was silent in the front seat opposite her husband and her eyes were dead set on the road ahead of them. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off...shake 'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this.
Nobody had spoken a word in the car, and Harry not dare be the one to break the silence. They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.
Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. He had led his family and Harry inside and bought two rooms on his credit card, slamming it down on the front desk in a hurried sort of manic state. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. The room was not pleasant, but it had beaten being amongst all of Dudley’s broken belongings or being stuck in the cupboard. It was...sad that this was the best case he had had yet...with the exception of Dudley’s snoring, of course.
Harry had stayed awake as long as he could—sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering...would any of those letters be there when they returned? Surely they would have to return at some point...right? Maybe if he had broken away from the Dursley’s he could snatch but one—just enough to get away to the bathroom where he could lock the door. Just long enough to read what had been sent.
They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table. “'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk." She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:
Mr. H. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared uncomfortably at the exchange. "I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.
Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.
"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared. It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.
“It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television.”
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday—and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week because of television—then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun—last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. Still, you weren't eleven every day.
Vernon had returned and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package.
“Vernon, what is that?” Aunt Petunia had asked, the life in her voice seemed frayed.
"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!" It was clear that he wasn’t going to be answering any specific questions, so the three of them had followed his directions without any further word.
It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there. Dudley was going to have to miss The Great Humberto.
"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. His voice was raspy and full of gusto. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!"
A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.
"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.
The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms, so Harry knew he would be in with another night of Dudley’s snoring.
Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up, uselessly.
"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" Uncle Vernon said with an air of joy—a sound so unDursleyish that it seemed perfectly timed that a crack of lightning outside highlighted it.
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all. He would forsake the letters at this point if things could return to the way they used to be. As much as he hated how things were—at the very least the house on 4 Privet Drive had electricity.
As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.
While the floor was hard, Harry was thankful the snoring from his cousin would be blocked out by the storm outside. While the weather certainly wasn’t nice—there was a sort of calming sensation to the sounds as the rain collided with the Earth. He wondered what kind of power above them decided tonight was the night for lightning of this caliber.
He had learned in school that storms like these centralized around the places where the air is so unstable it fights with itself—carrying the moisture in the air like some invisible superheroes combating each other with the gusts of wind and other atmospheric conditions.
The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry’s focus on it lessened as the night went on. He couldn’t quite fall asleep as he shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight, deeper and rolling across the ocean’s waves like shockwaves. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now. Wondering if the letter he was meant to receive was in fact a birthday letter.
Could it be possible that some long lost relative had finally found him, and the letter was to request him to live with them instead? Was it simply just somebody remembering for once that his birthday mattered? He didn’t know, and as much as he would have liked to say he would forsake the letters—he knew deep down that the desire was only fanned like a flame that this shack would yearn to house.
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.
Four minutes to go. The anticipation made the seconds stretch out into what felt like years. The more aware of how close it was the slower time seemed to move.
Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? Were the waves so bad outside that the entire shack would be dragged out to sea? He thought—if they became mobile in that sense—that still would be more than fine for his Uncle Dursley, since there was no way the letter writer would get their message out to Harry then. And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?
As the seconds ticked away, each moment felt like an eternity to him. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, a palpable energy coursing through his veins as he counted down the final moments. One minute to go, and he would officially be eleven years old, a milestone he had been eagerly awaiting for what felt like an eternity. Would it truly feel any different than how he had always felt, he wondered, his heart pounding with excitement and curiosity.
Thirty seconds left, and his anticipation reached a fever pitch. The seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly, each one dragging him closer to the moment he had been waiting for. Twenty...ten...nine—his mind raced with possibilities, considering whether he should wake Dudley up just to annoy him, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of his lips. Three...two...one...and then, it happened. BOOM.
With a rush of exhilaration, he felt a surge of energy wash over him as the clock struck midnight, marking the beginning of his eleventh year. It was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, replaced by a sense of freedom and possibility.
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.
Harry’s hair stuck on the end of his arms.
“Who is it?”