RUBEUS

Midnight had fallen over Privet Drive, so none of its residents heard or saw the enormous man trundling along on his motorbike down the middle of their road. Once it reached the corner, it turned into Magnolia Crescent, then along the alleyway that opened on to Wisteria Walk.

Hagrid cut the rumbling engine, lifted his goggles and climbed off. There was only one house with lights on, and it was behind this house which Hagrid stashed the bike.

Mrs Figg opened the front door before Hagrid had even knocked.

'You're late,' she grunted by way of greeting. She was wearing a nightcap and gown, and was holding open the door with one of her crutches. 'You wizards don't set much store by punctuality, do you.'

'Sorry abou' tha',' said Hagrid. 'Mind if I come in?'

'Yes, I suppose you'd better.'

'Dumbledore told yeh I was coming?' asked Hagrid, closing the door behind him while stooping to avoid hitting his head against the ceiling. The overwhelming smell of cats filled the dingy hall and Hagrid sneezed in a series of trumpeting sounds.

'Bless you,' said Mrs Figg. 'Yes, he sent an owl earlier today, telling me you'd be in the area for a few days and needed a place to stay. He didn't explain why, mind. Something to do with Harry, I assume?'

'Yeah, he didn' get his Hogwarts l-letter – a-CHOO!'

'Bless you. Yes, well, I know how that feels,' said Mrs Figg grumpily, and limped along the hall. 'Come into the living room, Hagrid, I'll get you a tea.'

Hagrid obliged, but took one look inside and saw all the cats milling about, flicking their tails and licking their paws. He sneezed again and backed out.

'Actually, Arabella, I reckon I'll take a kip now if yeh don' mind,' he said hastily. 'I gotta be up early, see.'

'Suit yourself,' Mrs Figg answered from the kitchen. 'The second bedroom's free. Upstairs, first on the left.'

At six o'clock that morning, Hagrid woke up, hit the alarm clock too hard and shattered it, then set off back down Wisteria Walk, holding aloft his tattered, pink umbrella. Dumbledore had bewitched it so that whoever was standing under it would be rendered invisible. When Hagrid turned into Privet Drive and reached number four, he withdrew one of the hundred letters from his coat pocket. He didn't notice that the emerald-green ink had rearranged itself, so that 'The Cupboard Under the Stairs' now read 'The Smallest Bedroom.'

Hagrid glanced along the street. Many of the curtains were twitching apart and one man was already watering the plants in his front garden.

Invisible to every eye, Hagrid slipped the letter through the letter-box, and waited on the brick wall.

Still, Harry did not read it. Frowning, Hagrid waited until the following morning to try again. However, the letter-box had been boarded up; so instead, with his tongue sticking through his teeth in effort, Hagrid slipped several through the gaps around the door and tossed a couple into the downstairs loo for good measure.

Still, Harry did not read it.

On Saturday, Hagrid took more extreme measures. He waited until the milkman had been and gone, then set about breaking open each egg, Vanishing the yolks with his umbrella, before replacing them with twenty-four rolled-up letters.

Still, Harry did not read it.

On Sunday, Hagrid began to lose his patience. He extracted a large handful of letters that morning and Levitated them over the Dursleys' roof. One by one, they shot down the chimney.

Hagrid chuckled to himself when he heard the uproar from the kitchen. Surely, surely, that would do it.

But he was wrong. Still, Harry had not read his letter. On top of that, the Dursleys were now throwing bags into the boot of their flashy car, before shooting off, taking the skinny, black-haired figure of Harry with them.

'Bleedin' Muggles,' muttered Hagrid, shaking his head in disbelief. He had no choice but to hurry back to Mrs Figg's house and climb astride the motorbike. He'd follow them all day and all night if he had to: letting Dumbledore down was simply not an option.

Fortunately, the sky was filled with fluffy clouds, so Hagrid was able to fly low enough to keep the Dursleys' tiny-looking car in view. They drove aimlessly, it seemed, cruising along both motorways and winding country roads, performing random U-turns, but Hagrid never lost sight of them.

Finally, when the sun had set, they stopped at a run-down hotel in the Midlands and Hagrid descended with relief. He spent the night in a sheltered spot round the back of the hotel, where he threw down blankets and fed the owl he had been keeping in his coat pocket.

The following morning, Hagrid sent all but one of the remaining letters to the hotel reception, knowing he'd have to deliver it personally tomorrow if his efforts failed again today.

And fail they did. Hagrid watched with disappointment as the car sped off once more. Stoically, Hagrid climbed back on the bike and followed; he had twenty-four hours to ensure Harry got his letter. With every hour it took to follow the car across all sorts of terrain, his time was running out.

The winds picked up. Fat raindrops flew into Hagrid as he crossed the darkening skies. More than once, he lost track of the Dursleys and had to risk flying lower to keep them in view. When he next spotted the car, it was parked by the coast. He landed right next to it. There was no sign of the Dursleys, or Harry.

Hagrid panicked. He had to find them. He had to deliver this letter, or else Harry would not go to Hogwarts. Lily and James Potter's son, growing to become a Muggle! What a disaster that would be.

Hagrid extracted the final letter from his pocket. To his relief, the address had changed once more. He read it, then squinted out at the ocean, where he saw, right in the distance, a dark shack standing atop a rock.

'Mus' be jokin',' he muttered. With five minutes and counting, he re-started the engine and set off once more, soaring over the violently-lapping waves. The journey took four minutes.

Hagrid touched down on the crumbling rock and strode against the torrent of weather. It was a wonder that the little hut was still standing, let alone staying dry inside.

His boots crunched on the rocks. A wooden rowing boat sat outside the hut, complete with a pair of battered-looking oars. The waves smashed against the perimeter, spraying Hagrid with seawater. With only seconds to go until the thirty-first of July, Hagrid approached the flimsy-looking wooden door, and knocked.