Disclaimer: If I am J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Inc., or anyone else who owns Harry Potter, I am practicing a cruel self-deception.
Vernon Dursley glared at the tawny owl on his porch.
"Shoo!" he shouted.
It didn't move.
No doubt his freakish sister-in-law and that husband of hers had sent it. They'd given it something to deliver, God knew what: a bomb, probably, or some sort of poison gas to turn them into toads.
Still, he couldn't just leave it there. What would the neighbours say?
"Well, what is it?" he said reluctantly.
The owl tossed a small red object onto the porch, hooted once, and flew away.
Vernon tiptoed onto the porch and gingerly picked up…
"Season's Greetings From The Potters!"