Letters À Go-Go

Harriet had scoured the internet, but failed to come up with a plausible explanation for the explosion of her would-be abductor's car. Ruling out spontaneous combustion--which she suspected would not involve green flames--Harriet began to entertain the possibility that she was the source of the fire. Pyrokinesis was a thrilling concept (she had once made a hot dog explode in the microwave), but after failing to light the merest candle without the aid of a Bic lighter she began to give it up. If the Dursleys had noticed how late she was out that night, or how thoroughly traumatized she was, they gave no indication and life went on as before.

Lounging in the back yard, limbs bronzed in the summer sun, Harriet was perusing an old copy of Lucky magazine and laughing silently at American women, idiotic puppets of media-driven consumer culture, when she heard the front door slam. It was Dudley, returning from practice. His junior soccer team was the favorite in three counties, and they practiced relentlessly to hold this position. Tennis shoes squeaked obnoxiously on the linoleum floor for a moment before he called out, "Letter fer you!"

A letter? Harriet thought curiously, then realized it was probably just last term's report cards. Dudley tended to hide his; though he never actually failed it was usually close. His parents didn't seem to notice. Harriet did alright in class despite her apathy. How odd, she thought, we've been out of school for only a few weeks and I feel as though it never even happened. Time stretches out interminably to a child. She looked forward to starting at the Junior High that fall. Perhaps, finally, she'd make some friends; it seemed to happen through a method she could not fathom--pure chance. Though she ridiculed the "normal" kids, huddling in their anonymous groups, Harriet was painfully lonely sometimes.

When she finally shuffled into the kitchen, Dudley was finger-combing his sweaty golden locks and peering at a thick envelope, mumbling "weird . . ." while half-heartedly searching the fridge for Gatorade.

"When did you learn to read?" she quipped. Besides being rude, it was a poor decision, as her cousin was quite sensitive about his middling mental capacity. In an instant Dudley's usual easygoing posture disappeared and his face reddened. He suddenly annoyed Harriet beyond reason. What a foolish little boy he is, she thought, his precious sports and his stupid family!

"You're the one getting letters from some mental institute!" he blurted, waving the thick envelope above her head. Harriet grabbed for the letter but he evaded her with a chuckle and dashed up the stairs to his room, clutching it at his side.

"That's mine, you stupid ass!" she growled, taking after him. "Give it to me!"

"Shut up, you . . . Nigger!" he replied, slamming the door behind him.

Incensed, she had just begun to pound on his door and yell "discrimination is a learned behavior" when, like a silent fury, Aunt Petunia appeared. Wrapped in a light cotton robe, eyes bulging. "Children . . . neighbors! . . . disrupt . . . unacceptable . . . how dare!" Petunia garbled in a quiet, scratchy voice. Gripping her niece by the shoulder she gathered her wits and began again with "Young Lady," at the exact moment Harriet started to screech "But Dudley!" She saw her mistake in the second before Petunia's hand connected with her face. Her Aunt, used to the days when public education occupied most of the children's time, was not by any means to be disturbed in mid day--especially when she hadn't been taking her medication, as appeared to be the case.

In between her stints as a soccer mom and sporadic fits of Martha Stewart inspired baking or crafting, Mrs. Dursley spent much of her time whining at Mr. Dursley and living vicariously through reality TV. For the past few years she had been seeing an analyst who prescribed her a little something to take the edge off. She was usually docile enough, but Harriet seemed to get her temper up. Petunia resented the burden of caring for her from infancy and was becoming increasingly jealous of the lovely and intelligent girl, who still had so much in life to look forward to. She slapped her niece a few more times for good measure.

There was an awkward moment of silence. Petunia floundered briefly before summoning her son from his room. "What is the meaning of this, Young Man?" she demanded in her best authoritarian voice. He handed over the letter--Harriet's--with an embarrassed "er . . ."

It was addressed to:Harriett Potter c/o Muddles

1742 Rotisserie Ct.

Muddleville USA

"They spelt my name wrong!" the girl hissed.

Petunia flipped over the envelope and let out a horrified gasp when she saw the big important-looking gold embossed seal (which is really the only sort of gold embossed seal).

"Is it from Muddle County Child Services?"

Her aunt ignored this and, trying hard to conceal her discomfiture, stuffed the controversial object into a robe pocket. She had recognized at once the tiny script the seal bore, which read "Hensteeth Institute." Amid much protest she declared that they must all forget about the whole thing, not bother her anymore, and stop fighting. The children reluctantly complied after a few threatening gestures and everyone went their separate ways.

That night a more important discussion occurred, which the children were not privy to. The Dursleys had long expected, and dreaded, the day when their niece's magical fellows would come to claim their own. Mr. Dursley's view of the matter consisted entirely of, "Just ignore them and they'll go away. It's worked this long." He unfortunately did not have a firm grasp of the situation, leaving his wife to deal with it alone, as usual. For she knew all about this so-called Institute of Magical Education--evil. Petunia's dear sister Lily had done this whole magic boarding school thing and look how that turned out. You may imagine that the Dursleys would have considered themselves well out of it had elves spirited away their niece. The truth is, Harriet provided for a sizeable tax break and they looked forward to coercing much of her inheritance from her when she turned 18. Ultimately, though, it comes back to the Dursley's simple and pure hatred of magic and anything so associated.

When the mail was delivered around two o'clock the next day, Petunia was waiting. Harriet didn't have the faintest idea that she had magic powers anyway, so no one would know the difference if Petunia simply never mentioned it. Just as she had suspected, another thick envelope arrived for her niece. Dashing to her husband's home office, she read the document through, sighed disapprovingly and ran it through the paper shredder.

By the third day, Harriet had more or less forgotten the incident a few days before. She went back to sitting around, reading, and making fun of things, happy as a clam. Petunia, on the other hand, was worried the letters would just keep coming. Eventually her niece would get a hold of one, and what a pain in the ass that would be to explain. Therefore, after successfully intercepting the mail for the sixth time, she scrawled across the top "Addressee Has Moved" and dropped it at the post office. Feeling very relieved, because she was quite unaware that this would probably not fool the most powerful wizard in America, Petunia put the whole business far from her mind and went in to watch some TV.

Many miles and schools of thought away, a bearded old man was not happy about that. We can send letters till we're blue in the face, he realized, but those Muggles aren't going to just ship little Harriet off to magic school. So with supernatural speed, because he's magic, he dispatched someone to take care of the problem.

The dispatchee, a rather large and hairy one in fact, arrived at the Dursley residence just as the family was sitting down to a dinner of pepperoni pizza from Papa Murphy's.

And there was a very loud knock at the door.

"KNOCK!"