CHAPTER ONE

THE BOY WHO LIVED

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud

to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They

were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange

or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which

made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although

he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde

and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very

useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences,

spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley

and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a

secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover

it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about

the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't

met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't

have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband

were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered

to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the

street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too,

but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason

for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with

a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday

our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to

suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening

all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most

boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she

wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked

Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but

missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his

cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left

the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first

sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second,

Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his

head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the

corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What

could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of

the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared

back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he

watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that

said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read

maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the

cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing

except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind

by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he

couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely

dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear

people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young

people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his

fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these

weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly

together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them

weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was,

and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it

struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these

people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would

be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley

arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office

on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to

concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing

past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they

pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most

of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley,

however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at

five different people. He made several important telephone calls

and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime,

when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to

buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed

a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he

passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were

whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting

tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut

in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their

son, Harry"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back

at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but

thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office,

snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone,

and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed

his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,

thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual

name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a

son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew

was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been

Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley;

she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't

blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same,

those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon

and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so

worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost

fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man

was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being

almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into

a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby

stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me

today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles

like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and

walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by

a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle,

whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set

off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never

hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing

he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd

spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was

sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just

gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley

wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the

house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over

dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and

how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried

to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the

living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the

nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although

owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight,

there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every

direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls

have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed

himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin

with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but

it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers

as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to

tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had

a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating

Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can

promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over

Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all

over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of

tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared

his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard

from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After

all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting

stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town

today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do

with... you know... her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley

wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He

decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could,

"Their son -- he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes,

I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs

to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept

to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The

cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it

were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with

the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to

a pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly

but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His

last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the

Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him

and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia

thought about them and their kind.... He couldn't see how he and

Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on --

he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them....

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but

the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was

sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far

corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door

slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In

fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared

so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out

of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He

was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair

and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He

was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground,

and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright,

and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very

long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This

man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just

arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots

was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for

something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because

he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from

the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat

seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed

to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up

in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with

a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into

darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only

lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the

distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone

looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley,

they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on

the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his

cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat

down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after

a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he

was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square

glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around

its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black

hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day,"

said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have

passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said

impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but

no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It

was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys'

dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting

stars.... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to

notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was

Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had

precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's

no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless,

out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle

clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though

hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she

went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who

seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us

all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be

thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though

she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say,

even if You-Know-Who has gone -"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can

call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven

years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper

name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore,

who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all

gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never

seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.

"I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding

half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone

knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort,

was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers

I will never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam

Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said,

"The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You

know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what

finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she

was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on

a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had

she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It

was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going

to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore,

however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night

Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the

Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are --

that they're -- dead. "

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to

believe it... Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I

know... I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's

not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But

-- he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why,

or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter,

Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone.

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's -- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all

he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little

boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but

how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed

at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff

as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a

very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little

planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to

Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said,

"Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here,

by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're

going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the

only family he has left now."

"You don't mean -- you can't mean the people who live

here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing

at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them

all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And

they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up

the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His

aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's

older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back

down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all

this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be

famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known

as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written

about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the

top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's

head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he

won't even remember! CarA you see how much better off he'll be,

growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind,

swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But

how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly

as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as

important as this?"

I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said

Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not

careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew

steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign

of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the

sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the

road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting

astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at

least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed,

and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of

his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in

their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular

arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And

where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant,

climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius

Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all

right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep

as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle

of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under

a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously

shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have

one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London

Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this

over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys'

house.

"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He

bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have

been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let

out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted

handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it

-- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with

Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid,

or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid

gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall

and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep,

took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets,

and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of

them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook,

Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light

that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business

staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin'

Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor

Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung

himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with

a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said

Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose

in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner

he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once,

and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that

Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby

cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He

could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with

a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay

silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would

expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over

inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on

the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special,

not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few

hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door

to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few

weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't

know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the

country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices:

"To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"

CHAPTER TWO

THE VANISHING GLASS

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to

find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly

changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and

lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door; it crept

into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it

had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news

report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really

showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots

of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing

different-colored bonnets -- but Dudley Dursley was no longer a

baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his

first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game

with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room

held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not

for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice

that made the first noise of the day.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.

"Up!" she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen

and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He

rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been

having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle

in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.

His aunt was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Nearly," said Harry.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And

don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's

birthday."

Harry groaned.

"What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.

"Nothing, nothing..."

Dudley's birthday -- how could he have forgotten? Harry got

slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair

under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them

on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs

was full of them, and that was where he slept.

When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The

table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It

looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted,

not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly

why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley

was very fat and hated exercise -- unless of course it involved

punching somebody. Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry, but he

couldn't often catch him. Harry didn't look it, but he was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard,

but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked

even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to

wear were old clothes of Dudley's, and Dudley was about four times

bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair,

and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a

lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him

on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance

was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt

of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the

first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was

how he had gotten it.

"In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And

don't ask questions."

Don't ask questions -- that was the first rule for a quiet life

with the Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over

the bacon.

"Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his

newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have

had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put

together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that

way -- all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen

with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a

large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick

blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia

often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel -- Harry often said

that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was

difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting

his presents. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and

father. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see,

it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the

face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began

wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned

the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said

quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out

today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right''

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally

he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty ... thirty..."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest

parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth,

just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to

answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the

racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen

new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold

wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking

both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She

can't take him." She jerked her head in Harry's direction.

Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a

leap. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a

friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants,

or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a

mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The

whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at

photographs of all the cats she'd ever owned.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as

though he'd planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that

Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded

himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles,

Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he

wasn't there -- or rather, as though he was something very nasty

that couldn't understand them, like a slug.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend -- Yvonne?"

"On vacation in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia.

"You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (he'd be

able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe

even have a go on Dudley's computer).

Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled.

"I won't blow up the house," said Harry, but they weren't

listening.

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia

slowly, "... and leave him in the car...."

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone...."

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying --

it had been years since he'd really cried -- but he knew that if he

screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything

he wanted.

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your

special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I... don't... want... him... t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled

between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp- spoils everything!" He

shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang -- "Oh, good Lord, they're

here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically -- and a moment later, Dudley's

best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was

a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who

held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley

stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was

sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley,

on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and

uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him,

but before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face

right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, boy -- any funny

business, anything at all -- and you'll be in that cupboard from

now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, "honestly..

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and

it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers

looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen

scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for

his bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley had

laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining

school the next day, where he was already laughed at for his baggy

clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, he had gotten

up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had

sheared it off He had been given a week in his cupboard for this,

even though he had tried to explain that he couldn't explain how

it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a

revolting old sweater of Dudley's (brown with orange puff balls) --

The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed

to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but

certainly wouldn't fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have

shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn't punished.

On the other hand, he'd gotten into terrible trouble for being

found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been

chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone

else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had

received a very angry letter from Harry's headmistress telling them

Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to

do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his

cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen

doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-

jump.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being

with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't

school, his cupboard, or Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked

to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry,

the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This

morning, it was motorcycles.

"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said,

as a motorcycle overtook them.

I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering

suddenly. "It was flying."

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned

right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a

gigantic beet with a mustache: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

I know they don't," said Harry. "It was only a dream."

But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing

the Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was

his talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter

if it was in a dream or even a cartoon -- they seemed to think he

might get dangerous ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with

families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate

ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in

the van had asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry him

away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It wasn't bad, either,

Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its

head who looked remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn't blond.

Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was

careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that

Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals

by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting

him. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum

because his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top,

Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Harry was allowed to finish

the first.

Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all

too good to last.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark

in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all

sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits

of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous

cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the

largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice

around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it into a trash can -- but at

the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring

at the glistening brown coils.

"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped

on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass

smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the

snake. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom

itself -- no company except stupid people drumming their fingers

on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than

having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt

Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to

visit the rest of the house.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly,

it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's.

It winked.

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was

watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then

raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said

quite plainly:

"I get that all the time.

"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't

sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the

glass. Harry peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and

Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see --

so you've never been to Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry

made both of them jump.

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T

BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the

ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What

came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second,

Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next,

they had leapt back with howls of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's

tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly,

slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house

screamed and started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low,

hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come.... Thanksss, amigo."

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong,

sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and

Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake

hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it

passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car,

Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while

Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst

of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say,

"Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?"

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house

before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He

managed to say, "Go -- cupboard -- stay -- no meals," before he

collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a

large brandy.

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a

watch. He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the

Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking

to the kitchen for some food.

He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable

years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby

and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember

being in the car when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he

strained his memory during long hours in his cupboard, he came up

with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burn-

ing pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though

he couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. He couldn't

remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about

them, and of course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were

no photographs of them in the house.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some

unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened;

the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe

hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange

strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed

to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After

asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed

them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old

woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A

bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in

the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The

weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to

vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang

hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken

glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang.

CHAPTER THREE

THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his

longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his

cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had

already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control

airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old

Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping

Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis,

Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was

the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest

of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport:

Harry Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the

house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays,

where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would

be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his

life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle

Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going

there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High,

the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at

Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything

as horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick." Then he ran,

before Dudley could work out what he'd said.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his

Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn

't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping

over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them

as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of

chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it 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.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon

said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt

Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her

Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't

trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already

have cracked from trying not to laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when

Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large

metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of

what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as

they always did if he dared to ask a question.

"Your new school uniform," she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

"Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"DotA be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of

Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone

else's when I've finished."

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to

argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how

he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High -- like he

was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses

because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened

his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which

he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on

the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three

things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister

Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope

that looked like a bill, and -- a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a

giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to

him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives -- he didn't

belong to the library, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for

books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there

could be no mistake:

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment,

and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a

purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger,

and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are

you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

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.

"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. 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.

"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?"

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, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister,

Marge), 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.

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. 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 thrown his tortoise

through the greenhouse roof, 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. "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 had 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.

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. 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.

I want --" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters

into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that

day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails,

"if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"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.

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.

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. 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.

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table

looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread

marmalade on his newspapers, "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.

"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.

"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!"

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that

no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way

through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, 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.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask

where they were going. 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.

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. Dudley and Harry shared a room with

twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed

awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of

passing cars and wondering....

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.

"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. Dud

ley 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.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying

a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked

what he'd bought.

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

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.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully,

clapping his hands together. "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.