It was a beautiful summer day in Privet Drive. Vernon Dursley threw open the double-glazed french windows at exactly ten o clock that morning, and greeted the sight of the sun, hanging in a cloudless blue sky, with a long and heartfelt belch of approval. Waddling behind him, his sausagy white legs looking aghast at the light, and his beige socks pulled up just over his knees, was the apple of Vernon Dursley's eye: his idiotic son Dudley.
"It's sunny," said Dudley. "I want an ice-cream." Dudley had no intention of playing in the sun at all, of course. But Dudley knew that his father, who pretended to approve of healthy outdoor activities, and who harboured a secret ambition for his only son to become a successful athlete, would be far more likely to buy him a Mr Whippy – with two flakes, Dad, two – if he pretended he was intending to spend the day outside.
In fact, Dudley had every intention of spending his day in the living room with his capacious bottom wedged into the biggest, comfiest armchair in the house, the curtains drawn, and his Playstation 2 plugged into the telly, playing his new Harry Potter Quidditch Tournament game.
The real Harry Potter (who Dudley, being a child whose brain was as small as his bottom was enormous, still hadn't figured out was actually the same as the one in his game), meanwhile, was also planning to spend the day indoors.
That's because a fly-past by what appeared to be an owl, early that morning, had put Mr Dursley into a stinking rage. And when Mr Dursley was in a stinking rage, he did what he always did – which was to dress Harry Potter in a girl's frock, put him in a blonde wig with curly-wurly pigtails, and lock him in the cupboard under the stairs. All day.
Harry was not entirely without resources, however, and his spirits were high. For although Mr Dursley had long since removed the lightbulb from the single bare fitting that dangled under the stairs, the bad state of repair of the door meant that little bits of light trickled in through the gaps in the planks.
So Harry was able to see just well enough to get his new project underway. From where he had hidden it under the folds of his petticoats while Mr Dursley's back had been turned, Harry carefully took out his prize, and started to unwrap it. One layer of newspaper came off, then another, then another still… and there it was: a great big lump of plasticine the size of a baby's head.
It had belonged to Dudley. Technically, Harry knew, it still did belong to Dudley. But Dudley being a child whose artistic talent was as small as his bottom was enormous, he had only ever figured out how to make snakes out of it – and he had been put off that when he caught Harry talking to one of them behind his back. So Harry had decided to borrow it.
The second part of Harry's project was already in the cupboard under the stairs, hidden under a floorboard and guarded by a tiny plasticine Dementor. This was the riskier bit. Dudley wouldn't miss his plasticine. But if Aunt Petunia ever figured out where one of her best willow-patterned plates had really gone (Vernon told her it had probably been stolen by the common people who ran the next door stall at the town fete) there would be hell to pay. Harry eased it out into his lap and replaced the floorboard. Then, he removed his wand from his sleeve and (with a silent hope that nobody from the Ministry knew he was using magic without permission), he tapped it once on the edge of the plate and whispered: "Rotare…WIDDERSHINS."
Starting slowly, but then picking up momentum, the plate started to spin, suspended in the air just above Harry's lap. The willow pattern blurred. There was a slight, whirring hum, and Harry could feel a gentle breeze on his face from the speed it was going round. He kneaded the plasticine until it was good and soft, and then, with some force, he slapped it bang onto the middle of the plate. Would it stick? It would! It did!
Harry started to work his thumbs, gently, into the centre of the moving plasticine, and felt the bit at the side rising up between his fingers, forming a concave shape. It was working! He was making a vase. And later, he promised himself, he would decorate the outside with pictures of Vernon, and Dudley, and Aunt Petunia, in all sorts of embarrassing poses.
Ever since Sirius had sat Harry down in Hagrid's hut and told him about the Prophecy that hot day the previous summer, little Harry understood why his father – who had actually been christened "Stumpyjoe" – had chosen for his son the name "Potter". Harry knew his destiny, and as he chewed gently on the end of one nylon pigtail, he felt calm and comforted. He knew that one day he would have to set foot in the terrifying castle of Tate; that he would have to see off the two-headed Chapman, and tame the Serotor – the most powerful of Voldemort's lieutenants – but for the moment, there was only the breeze from the whirling plate, the rustle of his satin frock, and the soft plasticine taking shape under his hands….