harry_potter.txt

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 Dursley s 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 swooping 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

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives
and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the use of hosepipes had
been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the
inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown
wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a
teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flowerbed outside number four.
He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of
someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt
baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harry Potter’s
appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of people who thought
scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea
bush this evening he was quite invisible to passers-by. In fact, the only way he would be spotted
was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living-room window and
looked straight down into the flowerbed below.
On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not,
perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth but, on the other hand, nobody was glaring
at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions
at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room to watch
television with his aunt and uncle.
Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s
uncle, suddenly spoke.
"Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he, anyway?"
"I don’t know," said Aunt Petunia, unconcerned. "Not in the house."
Uncle Vernon grunted.
"Watching the news..." he said scathingly. "I’d like to know what he’s really up to. As if a
normal boy cares what’s on the news - Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s going on; doubt he knows
who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about his lot on our news-"
"Vernon, shh!" said Aunt Petunia. "The window’s open!"
"Oh - yes - sorry, dear."
The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ‘n’ Bran breakfast cereal while he
watched Mrs. Figg, a batty cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past.
She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased he was concealed behind the
bush, as Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever she met him in the
street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s voice floated
out of the window again.
"Dudders out for tea?"
"At the Polkisses’," said Aunt Petunia fondly. "He’s got so many little friends, he’s so popular."
Harry suppressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about
their son, Dudley. They had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different
member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley
had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalizing the play park,
smoking on street corners and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them
at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays
wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way.
The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and
his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight - after a month of waiting - would be the night.
"Record numbers of stranded holiday makers fill air ports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week -"
"Give ‘em a lifelong siesta, I would," snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader’s
sentence, but no matter: outside in the flowerbed, Harry’s stomach seemed to unclench. If
anything had happened, it would surely have been the first item on the news; death and
destruction were more important than stranded holidaymakers.
He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the brilliant blue sky. Every day this summer had
been the same: the tension, the expectation, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension
again... and always, growing more insistent all the time, the question of why nothing had
happened yet.
He kept listening, just in case there was some small clue, not recognized for what it really was by
the Muggles - an unexplained disappearance, perhaps, or some strange accident... but the
baggage-handlers’ strike was followed by news about the drought in the Southeast ("I hope he’s
listening next door!" bellowed Uncle Vernon. "Him with his sprinklers on at three in the
morning!"), then a helicopter that had almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then a famous actress’s
divorce from her famous husband ("As if we’re interested in their sordid affairs," sniffed Aunt
Petunia, who had followed the case obsessively in every magazine she could lay her bony hands
on).
Harry closed his eyes against the now blazing evening sky as the newsreader said, "-and finally,
Bungy the budgie has found a novel way of keeping cool this summer. Bungy, who lives at the
Five Feathers in Barnsley, has learned to water ski! Mary Dorkins went to find out more."
Harry opened his eyes. If they had reached water-skiing budgerigars, there would be nothing else
worth hearing. He rolled cautiously on to his front and raised himself on to his knees and elbows,
preparing to crawl out from under the window.
He had moved about two inches when several things happened in very quick succession.
A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a gunshot; a cat streaked out from under a
parked car and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellowed oath and the sound of breaking china came
from the Dursleys’ living room, and as though this was the signal Harry had been waiting for he
jumped to his feet, at the same time pulling from the waistband of his jeans a thin wooden wand
as if he were unsheathing a sword - but before he could draw himself up to full height, the top of
his head collided with the Dursleys’ open window. The resultant crash made Aunt Petunia
scream even louder.
Harry felt as though his head had been split in two. Eyes streaming, he swayed, trying to focus
on the street to spot the source of the noise, but he had barely staggered upright when two large
purple hands reached through the open window and closed tightly around his throat.
"Put - it-away!" Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry’s ear. "Now! Before- anyone - sees!"
"Get - off - me!" Harry gasped. For a few seconds they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncles
sausage-like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wand; then,
as the pain in the top of Harry’s head gave a particularly nasty throb, Uncle Vernon yelped and
released Harry as though he had received an electric shock. Some invisible force seemed to have
surged through his nephew, making him impossible to hold.
Panting, Harry fell forwards over the hydrangea bush, straightened up and stared around. There
was no sign of what had caused the loud cracking noise, but there were several faces peering
through various nearby windows. Harry stuffed his wand hastily back into his jeans and tried to
look innocent.
"Lovely evening!" shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at Mrs. Number Seven, who was glaring from behind her net curtains. "Did you hear that car backfire just now? Gave Petunia and me quite a turn!"
He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all the curious neighbors had disappeared
from their various windows, then the grin became a grimace of rage as he beckoned Harry back
towards him.
Harry moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop just short of the point at which Uncle
Vernon’s outstretched hands could resume their strangling.
"What the devil do you mean by it, boy?" asked Uncle Vernon in a croaky voice that trembled
with fury.
"What do I mean by what?" said Harry coldly. He kept looking left and right up the street, still
hoping to see the person who had made the cracking noise.
"Making a racket like a starting pistol right outside our -"
"I didn’t make that noise," said Harry firmly.
Aunt Petunia’s thin, horsy face now appeared beside Uncle Vernon’s wide, purple one. She
looked livid.
"Why were you lurking under our window?"
"Yes - yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our window, boy?"
"Listening to the news," said Harry in a resigned voice.
His aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage.
"Listening to the news! Again?"
"Well, it changes every day, you see," said Harry.
"Don’t you be clever with me, boy! I want to know what you’re really up to - and don’t give me
any more of this listening to the news tosh! You know perfectly well that your lot -"
"Careful, Vernon!" breathed Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon lowered his voice so that Harry
could barely hear him, "-that your lot don’t get on our news!"
"That’s all you know," said Harry.
The Dursleys goggled at him for a few seconds, then Aunt Petunia said, "You’re a nasty little
liar. What are all those -" she, too, lowered her voice so that Harry had to lip-read the next word,
"- owls doing if they’re not bringing you news?"
"Aha!" said Uncle Vernon in a triumphant whisper. "Get out of that one, boy! As if we didn’t
know you get all your news from those pestilential birds!"
Harry hesitated for a moment. It cost him something to tell the truth this time, even though his
aunt and uncle could not possibly know how bad he felt at admitting it.
"The owls... aren’t bringing me news," he said tonelessly.
"I don’t believe it," said Aunt Petunia at once.
"No more do I," said Uncle Vernon forcefully.
"We know you’re up to something funny," said Aunt Petunia.
"We’re not stupid, you know," said Uncle Vernon.
"Well, that’s news to me," said Harry, his temper rising, and before the Dursleys could call him
back, he had wheeled about, crossed the front lawn, stepped over the low garden wall and was
striding off up the street.
He was in trouble now and he knew it. He would have to face his aunt and uncle later and pay
the price for his rudeness, but he did not care very much just at the moment; he had much more
pressing matters on his mind.
Harry was sure the cracking noise had been made by someone Apparating or Disapparating. It
was exactly the sound Dobby the house-elf made when he vanished into thin air. Was it possible
that Dobby was here in Privet Drive? Could Dobby be following him right at this very moment?
As this thought occurred he wheeled around and stared back down Privet Drive, but it appeared
to be completely deserted and Harry was sure that Dobby did not know how to become invisible.
He walked on, hardly aware of the route he was taking, for he had pounded these streets so often
lately that his feet carried him to his favorite haunts automatically. Every few steps he glanced
back over his shoulder. Someone magical had been near him as he lay among Aunt Petunia’s
dying begonias, he was sure of it. Why hadn’t they spoken to him, why hadn’t they made
contact, why were they hiding now?
And then, as his feeling of frustration peaked, his certainty leaked away.
Perhaps it hadn’t been a magical sound after all. Perhaps he was so desperate for the tiniest sign
of contact from the world to which he belonged that he was simply overreacting to perfectly
ordinary noises. Could he be sure it hadn’t been the sound of something breaking inside a
neighbor’s house?
Harry felt a dull, sinking sensation in his stomach and before he knew it the feeling of
hopelessness that had plagued him all summer rolled over him once again.
Tomorrow morning he would be woken by the alarm at five o’clock so he could pay the owl that
delivered the Daily Prophet - but was there any point continuing to take it? Harry merely glanced at the front page before throwing it aside these days; when the idiots who ran the paper finally realized that Voldemort was back it would be headline news, and that was the only kind Harry cared about.
If he was lucky, there would also be owls carrying letters from his best friends Ron and
Hermione, though any expectation he’d had that their letters would bring him news had long
since been dashed.
We can’t say much about you-know-what, obviously... We’ve been told not to say anything
important in case our letters go astray... We’re quite busy but I can’t give you details here...
There’s a fair amount going on, we’ll tell you everything when we see you...
But when were they going to see him? Nobody seemed too bothered with a precise date.
Hermione had scribbled I expect we’ll be seeing you quite soon inside his birthday card, but how
soon was soon? As far as Harry could tell from the vague hints in their letters, Hermione and
Ron were in the same place, presumably at Ron’s parents’ house. He could hardly bear to think
of the pair of them having fun at The Burrow when he was stuck in Privet Drive. In fact, he was
so angry with them he had thrown away, unopened, the two boxes of Honeydukes chocolates
they’d sent him for his birthday. He’d regretted it later, after the wilted salad Aunt Petunia had
provided for dinner that night.
And what were Ron and Hermione busy with? Why wasn’t he, Harry, busy? Hadn’t he proved
himself capable of handling much more than them? Had they all forgotten what he had done?
Hadn’t it been he who had entered that graveyard and watched Cedric being murdered, and been
tied to that tombstone and nearly killed?
Don’t think about that, Harry told himself sternly for the hundredth time that summer. It was bad
enough that he kept revisiting the graveyard in his nightmares, without dwelling on it in his
waking moments too.
He turned a corner into Magnolia Crescent; halfway along he passed the narrow alleyway down
the side of a garage where he had first clapped eyes on his godfather. Sirius, at least, seemed to
understand how Harry was feeling. Admittedly, his letters were just as empty of proper news as
Ron and Hermione’s, but at least they contained words of caution and consolation instead of
tantalizing hints:
I know this must be frustrating for you... Keep your nose clean and everything will be okay... Be
careful and don’t do anything rash...
Well, thought Harry, as he crossed Magnolia Crescent, turned into Magnolia Road and headed
towards the darkening play park, he had (by and large) done as Sirius advised. He had at least
resisted the temptation to tie his trunk to his broomstick and set off for The Burrow by himself.
In fact, Harry thought his behavior had been very good considering how frustrated and angry he
felt at being stuck in Privet Drive so long, reduced to hiding in flowerbeds in the hope of hearing
something that might point to what Lord Voldemort was doing. Nevertheless, it was quite galling
to be told not to be rash by a man who had served twelve years in the wizard prison, Azkaban,
escaped, attempted to commit the murder he had been convicted for in the first place, then gone
on the run with a stolen Hippogriff.
Harry vaulted over the locked park gate and set off across the parched grass. The park was as
empty as the surrounding streets. When he reached the swings he sank on to the only one that
Dudley and his friends had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm around the chain and stared
moodily at the ground. He would not be able to hide in the Dursleys’ flowerbed again.
Tomorrow, he would have to think of some fresh way of listening to the news. In the meantime,
he had nothing to look forward to but another restless, disturbed night, because even when he
escaped the nightmares about Cedric he had unsettling dreams about long dark corridors, all
finishing in dead ends and locked doors, which he supposed had something to do with the
trapped feeling he had when he was awake. Often the old scar on his forehead prickled
uncomfortably, but he did not fool himself that Ron or Hermione or Sirius would find that very
interesting any more. In the past, his scar hurting had warned that Voldemort was getting
stronger again, but now that Voldemort was back they would probably remind him that its
regular irritation was only to be expected... nothing to worry about... old news...
The injustice of it all welled up inside him so that he wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn’t been
for him, nobody would even have known Voldemort was back! And his reward was to be stuck
in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical world, reduced to
squatting among dying begonias so that he could hear about water-skiing budgerigars! How
could Dumbledore have forgotten him so easily? Why had Ron and Hermione got together
without inviting him along, too? How much longer was he supposed to endure Sirius telling him
to sit tight and be a good boy; or resist the temptation to write to the stupid Daily Prophet and
point out that Voldemort had returned? These furious thoughts whirled around in Harry’s head,
and his insides writhed with anger as a sultry, velvety night fell around him, the air full of the
smell of warm, dry grass, and the only sound that of the low grumble of traffic on the road
beyond the park railings.
He did not know how long he had sat on the swing before the sound of voices interrupted his
musings and he looked up. The streetlamps from the surrounding roads were casting a misty
glow strong enough to silhouette a group of people making their way across the park. One of
them was singing a loud, crude song. The others were laughing. A soft ticking noise came from
several expensive racing bikes that they were wheeling along.
Harry knew who those people were. The figure in front was unmistakeably his cousin, Dudley
Dursley, wending his way home, accompanied by his faithful gang.
Dudley was as vast as ever, but a year’s hard dieting and the discovery of a new talent had
wrought quite a change in his physique. As Uncle Vernon delightedly told anyone who would
listen, Dudley had recently become the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Champion of
the Southeast. ‘The noble sport’, as Uncle Vernon called it, had made Dudley even more
formidable than he had seemed to Harry in their primary school days when he had served as
Dudley’s first punching bag. Harry was not remotely afraid of his cousin any more but he still didn’t think that Dudley learning to punch harder and more accurately was cause for celebration.
Neighborhood children all around were terrified of him - even more terrified than they were of
‘that Potter boy’ who, they had been warned, was a hardened hooligan and attended St. Brutus’s
Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.
Harry watched the dark figures crossing the grass and wondered who they had been beating up
tonight. Look round, Harry found himself thinking as he watched them. Come on... look
round... I’m sitting here all alone... come and have a go...
If Dudley’s friends saw him sitting here, they would be sure to make a beeline for him and what
would Dudley do then? He wouldn’t want to lose face in front of the gang, but he’d be terrified
of provoking Harry... it would be really fun to watch Dudley’s dilemma, to taunt him, watch
him, with him powerless to respond... and if any of the others tried hitting Harry, he was ready -
he had his wand. Let them try... he’d love to vent some of his frustration on the boys who had
once made his life hell.
But they didn’t turn around, they didn’t see him, they were almost at the railings. Harry mastered
the impulse to call after them... seeking a fight was not a smart move... he must not use magic...
he would be risking expulsion again.
The voices of Dudley’s gang died away; they were out of sight, heading along Magnolia Road.
There you go, Sirius, Harry thought dully. Nothing rash. Kept my nose clean. Exactly the
opposite of what you’d have done.
He got to his feet and stretched. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon seemed to feel that whenever
Dudley turned up was the right time to be home, and any time after that was much too late.
Uncle Vernon had threatened to lock Harry in the shed if he came home after Dudley ever again,
so, stifling a yawn, and still scowling, Harry set off towards the park gate.
Magnolia Road, like Privet Drive, was full of large, square houses with perfectly manicured
lawns, all owned by large, square owners who drove very clean cars similar to Uncle Vernon’s.
Harry preferred Little Whinging by night, when the curtained windows made patches of jewel bright color in the darkness and he ran no danger of hearing disapproving mutters about his ‘delinquent’ appearance when he passed the householders. He walked quickly, so that halfway along Magnolia Road Dudley’s gang came into view again; they were saying their farewells at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harry stepped into the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited.
"... squealed like a pig, didn’t he?" Malcolm was saying, to guffaws from the others.
"Nice right hook, Big D," said Piers.
"Same time tomorrow?" said Dudley.
"Round at my place, my parents will be out," said Gordon.
"See you then," said Dudley.
"Bye, Dud!"
"See ya, Big D!"
Harry waited for the rest of the gang to move on before setting off again. When their voices had
faded once more he headed around the corner into Magnolia Crescent and by walking very
quickly he soon came within hailing distance of Dudley, who was strolling along at his ease,
humming tunelessly.
"Hey, Big D!"
Dudley turned.
"Oh," he grunted. "It’s you."
"How long have you been ‘Big D’ then?" said Harry.
"Shut it," snarled Dudley, turning away.
"Cool name," said Harry, grinning and falling into step beside his cousin. "But you’ll always be
‘Ickle Diddykins’ to me."
"I said, SHUT IT!" said Dudley, whose ham-like hands had curled into fists.
"Don’t the boys know that’s what your mum calls you?"
"Shut your face."
"You don’t tell her to shut her face. What about ‘Popkin’ and ‘Dinky Diddydums’, can I use
them then?"
Dudley said nothing. The effort of keeping himself from hitting Harry seemed to demand all his
self-control.
"So who’ve you been beating up tonight?" Harry asked, his grin fading. "Another ten-year-old? I
know you did Mark Evans two nights ago -"
"He was asking for it," snarled Dudley.
"Oh yeah?"
"He cheeked me."
"Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that’s been taught to walk on its hind legs? Cause that’s
not cheek, Dud, that’s true."
A muscle was twitching in Dudley’s jaw. It gave Harry enormous satisfaction to know how
furious he was making Dudley; he felt as though he was siphoning off his own frustration into
his cousin, the only outlet he had.
They turned right down the narrow alleyway where Harry had first seen Sirius and which formed
a short cut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was empty and much darker than
the streets it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their footsteps were muffled between
garage walls on one side and a high fence on the other.
"Think you’re a big man carrying that thing, don’t you?" Dudley said after a few seconds.
"What thing?"
"That - that thing you are hiding."
Harry grinned again.
"Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud? But I s’pose, if you were, you wouldn’t be able to walk and talk at the same time."
Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look sideways at it.
"You’re not allowed," Dudley said at once. "I know you’re not. You’d get expelled from that
freak school you go to."
"How d’you know they haven’t changed the rules, Big D?"
"They haven’t," said Dudley, though he didn’t sound completely convinced.
Harry laughed softly.
"You haven’t got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?" Dudley snarled.
"Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten year old. You know
that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?"
"He was sixteen, for your information," snarled Dudley, "and he was out cold for twenty minutes
after I’d finished with him and he was twice as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had
that thing out -"
"Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harry’s wand?"
"Not this brave at night, are you?" sneered Dudley.
"This is night, Diddykins. That’s what we call it when it goes all dark like this."
"I mean when you’re in bed!" Dudley snarled.
He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at his cousin.
From the little he could see of Dudley’s large face, he was wearing a strangely triumphant look.
"What d’you mean, I’m not brave when I’m in bed?" s aid Harry, completely nonplussed. "What
am I supposed to be frightened of, pillows or something?"
"I heard you last night," said Dudley breathlessly. "Talking in your sleep. Moaning."
"What d’you mean?" Harry said again, but there was a cold, plunging sensation in his stomach.
He had revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams.
Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter, then adopted a high-pitched whimpering voice.
"‘Don’t kill Cedric! Don’t kill Cedric!’ Who’s Cedric - your boyfriend?"
"I - you’re lying," said Harry automatically. But his mouth had gone dry. He knew Dudley wasn’t lying - how else would he know about Cedric?
"Dad! Help me, Dad! He’s going to kill me, Dad! Boo hoo!"
"Shut up," said Harry quietly. "Shut up, Dudley, I’m warning you!"
"Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He’s killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He’s
going to - don’t you point that thing at me!"
Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harry was pointing the wand directly at Dudley’s heart. Harry
could feel fourteen years’ hatred of Dudley pounding in his veins - what wouldn’t he give to
strike now, to jinx Dudley so thoroughly he’d have to crawl home like an insect, struck dumb,
sprouting feelers...
"Don’t ever talk about that again," Harry snarled. "D’you understand me?"
"Point that thing somewhere else!"
"I said, do you understand me?"
"Point it somewhere else!"
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
"GET THAT THING AWAY FROM -"
Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been doused in icy water.
Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch black and
lightless - the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The
distant rumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly
piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though
some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them.
For a split second Harry thought he had done magic without meaning to, despite the fact that
he’d been resisting as hard as he could - then his reason caught up with his senses - he didn’t
have the power to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and that, trying to see
something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.
Dudley’s terrified voice broke in Harry’s ear.
"W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!"
"I’m not doing anything! Shut up and don’t move!"
"I c-can’t see! I’ve g-gone blind! I -"
"I said shut up!"
Harry stood stock still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. The cold was so intense he was
shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck
were standing up - he opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing.
It was impossible... they couldn’t be here... not in Little Whinging... he strained his ears... he
would hear them before he saw them...
"I’ll t-tell Dad!" Dudley whimpered. "W-where are you? What are you d-do--?"
"Will you shut up?" Harry hissed, "I’m trying to lis --"
But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had been dreading.
There was something in the alleyway apart from themselves, something that was drawing long,
hoarse, rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing
air.
"C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I’ll h-hit you, I swear I will!"
"Dudley, shut--"
WHAM.