o0o0o0o

A Letter for Harry

The incident at the zoo earned Harry a longer stay in the cupboard than ever before. He'd expected no less after the reaction he'd received and wasn't surprised that he had to wait until the summer holidays to be given his freedom again. He spent most of the time in his cupboard rereading his collection of books. The same 'what if' questions were ringing through his head whenever he saw words like magic or illusion.

It was clear when he got out that the entire attitude of the Dursleys had shifted after that day. Vernon now spent most of his time pretending that Harry didn't exist. There were no more morning exchanges over the news, nor any warnings about unnatural behaviour. In fact, the only time Vernon actually spoke to Harry was to tell him to do his chores and even then it was no more than two or three words. His act only broke when Harry entered a room with Dudley or Petunia in it. When this happened, Vernon would throw him a sharp warning glance, like they both knew something that the other two didn't.

Petunia was also a lot quieter around him and when she did speak, her voice was much stiffer. She used to spit out any word she said to him, but nowadays she mostly spoke in a clipped formal tone and never looked him directly in the eye, always slightly over his head, as though he was beneath her notice. Once or twice, whenever he knocked something off a counter or spilt something on the carpet, she would fall into old habits and snap at him to "watch where you're going" or "clean that up".

Dudley showed the least change, however you could see in his eyes that he had also been affected. He flinched every time somebody mentioned snakes and always tried to position himself away from any windows, eyeing them suspiciously. If it had been anyone else, Harry would have felt sorry for them, but if anybody deserved to be knocked down a peg or two, it was Dudley.

Unfortunately, Dudley mainly remained his big, stupid self and since it was the holidays, his friends often came over to play on his computer or go out and hang around at the local park. It seemed that Malcolm had been accepted as a permanent member of the gang, which meant that Harry now had five problems instead of four. These visits were the reason that Harry spent most of his time outside of the house. Usually, he just wandered the area of Little Whinging, but from time to time he went over to Mrs Figg's house.

Arabella Figg was a mad old lady who lived just down the road on Wisteria Walk. She had moved to the area only a day or two before Harry had been dropped off on the Dursleys' doorstep and he had known her for his entire life. Whenever the Dursleys went on holiday or out somewhere interesting for the day, they would usually leave Harry behind with Mrs Figg.

Harry had very mixed feelings about those visits. One the one hand, he absolutely hated her house. It always smelled of cabbage and everything she owned was centuries old. Pretty much all of the furniture, carpets and walls were one of two colours, cream or brown, and were usually also covered in a thick layer of cat hair. Then, there were the cats themselves. Harry had never really liked cats, probably because of all the ones he had seen while at Mrs Figg's. She had at least twenty of them in total and there was always three or four in each room, clambering over the furniture or sitting in the shadows. Now and again, they could be seen roaming around the area of Little Whinging, watching the people go about their daily business. Harry had noticed that they seemed to enjoy stalking around Privet Drive in particular.

On the other hand, there was Mrs Figg herself. Despite how awful the visits could be, Harry really liked the old woman. She treated him well and made sure he was properly fed and watered when he came over, even if she was absurdly strict regarding her cats. She was often sharp and direct with her words, sometimes coming off as a bit rude, but she would never intentionally insult you. It was from her that Harry had picked up his dry sense of humour and they always had a good laugh whenever she told him some story about one of her old cats. The only big problem Harry had with her was that she didn't like him asking any questions about herself. She'd always get a closed-off look on her face and tell him to mind his own business. She was also a bit mad; Harry could swear he'd heard her talking to her cats more than once.

One of his most memorable visits to the house had been a few years back. Mrs Figg had just finished telling him a story about Ser Pounce-a-lot, one of her very first cats. She had given Harry a piece of chocolate cake which tasted like she had bought it at an antiques shop and then shambled off to make some tea. Harry had lost interest in the cake after one bite and decided to go and see if he could help instead of sitting around twiddling his thumbs.

He had cracked open the door of the kitchen and peeked inside, where he saw a most peculiar sight. Mrs Figg was stood in front of her kettle, holding a short wooden rod in her hand. Harry watched with curiosity as she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and read the text on it slowly. She placed the paper on the counter before her and raised the piece of wood, her face scrunched in concentration. She said something that Harry didn't quite catch and tapped the kettle twice. Nothing seemed to happen. The old woman's face fell and she sighed with disappointment.

It was then that she noticed Harry. She turned to him sharply and stowed away the wood and paper so fast that Harry barely saw them move. He had made a little squeaking noise and backed into the sitting room, moving quickly to his seat and stuffing a piece of cake into his mouth, startling a nearby cat with his sudden movements. When Mrs Figg came in, she fixed him with a scrutinising stare and sat down opposite him.

He'd been younger back then and he hadn't quite learned when to keep his curiosity to himself. "Mrs Figg, what were you doing to the kettle?" he'd asked her.

She'd looked at him over her cup through narrow eyes and said, "Hitting it. I thought you saw that well enough."

Harry's brow had crinkled in confusion. "But, why?" he'd said.

She'd given him a tight smile in response and just told him to finish his cake.

Other than that one incident, his visits to the cat lady's house were never really that interesting, but it was his best place to hide when Dudley's gang was around. Harry was greatly looking forward to the end of the holidays, because that was when he would start at secondary school. For the first time in his life he wouldn't have to be around Dudley all day. Dudley and his friends were all going to Uncle Vernon's old school, Smeltings, a boys-only academy. They were the only five boys from their primary school to be accepted there, which is probably how Malcolm had been recruited by the others. Harry, on the other hand, would be going to the local comprehensive, Stonewall.

Dudley always laughed when Harry's new school was brought up and it wasn't until Harry got annoyed and asked what was so funny that he told him why. According to his cousin, the older kids at Stonewall liked to shove the first years' heads down the toilet on the first day. Harry assumed that Dudley had meant to scare him with the story, but all it did was give him a mental image of Dudley's head being forced into a toilet bowl. He was almost sorry that his cousin wouldn't be joining him next year.

Then came the day when Dudley received his new uniform. Smeltings was very strict about what their students could wear, making an effort to ensure that their students looked, in Uncle Vernon's own words, "sophisticated and respectable."

The uniform consisted of a maroon tailcoat and jumper, orange knickerbockers and a flat straw hat called a boater. An optional addition to this outfit was a knobbly stick, which Vernon claimed was to make the boys look more dignified, but Harry suspected would more often be used for hitting other students. Dudley spent the entire evening parading around in his new attire, a pompous smile on his face as he swung the Smeltings stick in a circle beside him.

Petunia sobbed at the sight and went on and on about how she couldn't believe her little boy was all grown up. Vernon gave a watery smile to his son and declared that moment to be the proudest of his life. Harry nearly cracked his ribs trying not to laugh, especially when his aunt descended on Dudley and began covering his face with kisses, much to the Smeltings boy's horror.

His enjoyment was short-lived however, when Petunia showed him his own uniform the next day. The first thing he noticed about it was the horrible smell that filled the kitchen when he came in for breakfast that morning. Further investigation led him to a metal tub in the sink, which was filled with what looked like bits of old elephant skin soaked in dirty water.

"Stonewall doesn't have a uniform, as such," Petunia explained when he asked about it, "They just want everything you wear to be grey, so I'm dying some of Dudley's old things for you."

Harry looked at her in disbelief. "This is my new uniform?" he said in disgust.

"Do you have a problem with it?" she asked coldly.

"Well it's a bit wet for starters," he said.

She scowled at him and turned back to making the breakfast. He sighed in defeat when he realised the discussion was over and took a seat at the table. He'd hoped that this year, since he needed a new uniform, he'd be able to wear clothes which actually fit him, but fate really didn't seem to like him very much. He tried not to think what he would look like on his first day at school.

Dudley and Vernon entered a few minutes later. Vernon held a newspaper, which he promptly disappeared behind, and Dudley carried his Smeltings stick. He had grown quite attached to the glorified club.

They ate breakfast in near silence, which was only broken occasionally by Vernon's loud complaints about various things he found in his morning paper. Dudley spent most of the meal using his Smeltings stick to hit Harry on the shins under the table, so Harry was greatly relieved when Vernon barked at him to fetch the post. He went the long way around the table to avoid being tripped by Dudley and headed out into the hall. He bent to pick up the pile of letters.

There was a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was on holiday on the Isle of Wight, three brown envelopes which Harry guessed were bills, a bank statement and a heavy envelope made of what looked like parchment.

Harry inspected the last item closely. It was a very strange letter; unlike most modern envelopes, which were sealed with glue on the inner lip, this one bore a purple wax seal with some kind of symbol on it. Harry squinted at it and saw that it was actually a coat of arms; a badger, a lion, an eagle and a serpent all surrounding a large capital 'H'. His curiosity getting the better of him, Harry turned the letter over to see who it was addressed to and nearly dropped it in shock.

Written on the envelope, in bright emerald-green ink, were the words:

Mr H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

Harry stared. He had never gotten a letter before. He had dreamed, of course, of some distant relative trying to contact him, but they were just dreams. Nobody ever wanted to talk to Harry, let alone enough to write to him. He'd never even gotten an angry note from the library, since his relatives didn't want him affiliated with a place where he could find so much fiction.

As if his name wasn't strange enough, Harry was pretty sure that nobody used parchment or wax seals these days. 'People don't normally put the place you sleep on your letter do they?' wondered Harry, 'Wait a minute, how does this person know where I sleep at all?'

"Boy! What's taking so long out there?" Petunia's shrill voice cut through the air.

Harry looked longingly at his letter, before stuffing it into his back pocket and taking the rest of the post back to the kitchen. He could read it later when he was alone in his cupboard.

'My letter,' the thought made Harry feel giddy.

He dropped the post onto Vernon's empty plate and cleared away his own plate and cutlery, then started moving swiftly back towards the hallway trying to avoid putting a spring in his step. However, in his haste to get away, Harry completely forgot to watch out for Dudley and his Smeltings stick. His legs collided with the hard wood and went out from under him causing him to crash face first into the floor, his glasses flying across the room.

"Mum! Dad!" shouted Dudley, "Harry's got a letter. In his pocket, look!"

Harry groaned in pain and scrambled for his glasses. A great weight landed on his back and forced the air out of his lungs. While he gasped for breath, Dudley pulled the letter out of his pocket and climbed off him, taking care to step on his fingers as he did so. Harry grabbed his glasses and pushed himself to his feet, just in time to see Vernon snatch the letter out of Dudley's hands.

His Uncle gave him a dark glare. "What do you think you're doing, boy?" he spat, "Running off with our mail. Who do you think you are?"

It was the most Vernon had said to him in one go since the argument after the zoo, but Harry didn't notice. "Give it back," he said, "It's mine."

All three Dursleys gave him a confused frown. "Yours?" said Petunia disbelievingly, "Do you think we're idiots, boy? Who would want to write to- to-" She had just caught sight of the purple seal and her eyes bulged. She grabbed her husband's arm and gripped it tight. "V- Vernon," she squeaked, pointing at the parchment, "Look."

Mr Dursley followed his wife's finger and the colour drained from his face. He looked at Petunia, then back to the letter and finally at Harry, his eyes turning to steel. Harry gulped.

"Dudley," said the big man quietly, "Wait outside."

Dudley looked at his father, "But, Dad-"

"Now Dudley!" he interrupted.

Everyone stared at Mr Dursley. He never shouted at his son. Never.

Dudley himself whimpered and ran from the room, slamming the door closed behind him. Vernon then rounded on Harry, his dark gaze cutting right through the small boy. Harry took a step back in fear.

Vernon raised the letter. "Where did this come from?" he asked menacingly.

"It was in the post," said Harry.

"You know what I mean, boy!" thundered Vernon, "I let you off easy last time, but this is my house and you've gone too far."

"I don't know who it's from," said Harry honestly.

"Don't lie to us," snapped his Aunt, "How else would these- these people have our address? How could they know where you sleep?"

"When did you contact them? Was it on one of your little strolls around the neighbourhood?" asked Vernon.

Harry looked between his two relatives, trying to understand what was happening. He was reminded heavily of his confrontation with Vernon a month ago. "I- I don't know what you mean," he said, "I don't know where it came from. I haven't contacted anyone."

'Why would I?' he thought, 'It's not like anyone would actually want to speak with me- well, apparently they would, but how was I supposed to know that?'

"Do you expect us to believe that?" she scoffed, "You're just like the rest of them, aren't you? I thought we could stamp it out of you, make you somewhat respectable, but your kind obviously don't care any for that."

"I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!" screamed Harry in frustration, his hands balling into fists.

His Uncle moved suddenly, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him against the wall. He yelped in pain and heard his Aunt let out a shocked, "Vernon!" in the background. His Uncle was looking at him with a fire in his eyes, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.

"Say. That. Again," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Harry squirmed, causing Vernon's grip to tighten, and looked his uncle directly in the eyes. His heart was beating rapidly against his ribcage, but he kept his gaze level and managed to choke out, "I d- don't know where it came from."

His Uncle dropped him to the ground and stepped back. Harry rubbed his shoulders and watched some of the anger slip from Vernon's face. "Go to your cupboard," he said firmly.

Harry looked up at him, then stood as straight as he could and said as boldly as he could, "I want my letter."

Vernon stepped forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Harry. Harry forced himself to stay his ground, even while the last dregs of his courage began to slip away. "Cupboard. Now," spat Vernon. His eyes held a dangerous spark that could burst into a flame of rage again at any moment.

Harry gulped and backed away from the dark look, his resolve finally breaking. He walked to the door and stepped out into the hall. Dudley was stood just outside the entrance, it looked like he'd been eavesdropping.

"What was that about, Potter?" he asked quietly.

Harry shrugged and moved to listen at the keyhole. His cousin tried to push him out of the way, starting a brief and silent fight which Harry inevitably lost, forcing him to lie flat on his belly and listen to the crack under the door instead.

"-sure he doesn't know then?" he heard his Aunt saying. He was fairly sure he knew who she was talking about.

"No," replied Vernon, "I could see it in his eyes, he has no idea what's going on."

"Did you really have to be so violent with him?" she asked.

"I needed to get my point across," argued Vernon pathetically. There was a short moment of silence before he said, "Oh, I don't know. I just can't stand the thought of one of them in the house with us, with Dudley. We swore we would have nothing to do with any of them and then they go and drop this on our heads."

"I understand Vernon. I'm as scared as you are, especially after what happened to my sister, but perhaps we've handled it in the wrong way."

"That's my point though," said Vernon, "What happened to that boy's parents could just as easy happen to us as well. Didn't we always say that their life would come back to bite them eventually? I don't want us involved with people like that."

"We might already be involved, though," said Petunia, "They already seem to know so much about us. I mean, they even knew about his cupboard."

"I bet they're all untrustworthy types, like that Potter bloke," said Vernon, "I bet they've got a hundred-and-one different ways of spying on people like us. We should probably do something about that. If they know where he's been sleeping, it could go badly for us."

"What are we going to do about this, then?" asked Petunia. Harry assumed she was talking about the letter.

"What's there to do?" said Vernon, "We'll ignore them, like we said we would ten years ago. Keep ourselves and that boy out of their world."

"I don't think it will be that easy, dear."

"It never is with these people," grumbled Vernon.

That evening, something happened which had never happened before in Harry's time at Privet Drive; Uncle Vernon visited him in his cupboard. His enormous form completely filled the door frame, blocking out any view of the hall outside.

"Where's my letter?" asked Harry the moment his Uncle appeared.

"I have burnt it," said Vernon crisply, "It wasn't something your Aunt or I approved of."

Harry felt like a lead weight had been dropped in his stomach, "What do you mean you've burnt it? You can't do that, it was my letter!"

"It was from people we do not want you associating with. Dangerous people," explained Vernon impatiently.

"What, like my parents?" said Harry.

"Yes," replied Vernon shortly.

Harry's teeth clenched. "What were you talking about before?" he demanded to know, "What did you mean 'my kind'? Who was that letter from?"

"That is none of your business," snapped his Uncle.

"Of course it's my business. That was my letter, it had my cupboard on it," he countered.

"Be quiet!" yelled Vernon. He took a deep breath and put a smile on his face which was painfully fake, "Er- about this cupboard- Harry- me and your Aunt, think you're getting a bit too big for it. We think it might be time for you to move into Dudley's second bedroom."

Harry blinked in surprise and not just because Vernon had used his name. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"I just told you," said Vernon irritably, "Now, gather your things and move them upstairs."

Vernon shut the door and Harry sighed, before sitting up and getting to work. It took him just one trip to move all of his possessions upstairs, carrying them by using an old bed sheet as a makeshift satchel. He threw the load on his new bed and sat down, taking in his surroundings.

Nearly everything in the room was broken. The cine-camera which Dudley had received only a month back was sat atop what remained of his first TV set, which he had put his foot through years ago. There was a large bird cage, which had once held a parrot and an air rifle which had been bent out of shape when Dudley sat on it. The only things that were not broken in this room were the books, which looked like they'd been in the same place for years, and the boardgames, which were all still in their boxes, some of them still sealed.

Harry fell back onto the mattress and ran his hands down his face. He couldn't even enjoy finally having his own room. He had no idea how many times he's dreamed of having this room for himself, but that letter was still weighing down on him like a sack of bricks. His life had taken a decidedly odd turn in the past month or so. It wasn't like he'd been a normal child before that, but ever since Dudley's birthday he'd become a magnet for strangeness. Normally, he would try to put whatever happened out of his mind, because the Dursleys didn't like him talking about such things, but this time was different. This time, he knew that the Dursleys were hiding something from him. They knew something; about the letter, about what happened at the zoo, about his parents, about him. Whatever this was, it was big and he would find some way to get the truth.

The next morning, there was a thick tension hanging over the table at breakfast. Dudley was sulking. He'd thrown a massive tantrum yesterday, demanding that Harry be thrown out of his room, but to no avail. Harry was sat quietly, silently berating himself for not being more careful with that letter. Vernon and Petunia kept giving each other meaningful looks and deliberately avoided Harry's eyes.

When they heard the post arrive, Vernon looked up and, to both boys' surprise, told Dudley to go and get it.

Dudley stared at his father in shock. "Make Harry go and get it," he said.

"Please go and get the post, son," said Vernon gruffly. It was obvious he didn't like this any more than Dudley did.

The boy scowled and stood up, kicking his chair away. He stomped out of the door and into the hall. Everyone at the table held their breath. They could hear the Smeltings stick banging against the wall as he went, then silence.

"There's another one!" shouted Dudley, "Mr H Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive-"

Harry and Vernon both moved towards the door, but as Harry was faster, he got there first. He collided with Dudley's enormous form and the enormous boy was so surprised that they both went tumbling to the floor. They had a short scuffle over the letter, which was ended prematurely by Uncle Vernon grabbing them by the collars and pulling them apart. He swiped the letter off the floor and ordered them both to their rooms, then went back into the kitchen to talk with Petunia.

Harry was even more shocked than he'd been after the first letter. Someone knew that he was no longer in his cupboard. More than that, someone knew he hadn't received his first letter.

That night, he couldn't get to sleep. His mind was too laden with thoughts of his mysterious contact for him to keep his eyes closed. He was certain that whoever it was would try again, though he wasn't sure why. He had to find some way of getting that letter and waiting for it to be delivered to the door again didn't seem like the best plan.

Making a decision, he grabbed an old torch from one of the piles of junk in his room and pulled on a coat and some shoes. Very cautiously, he made his way to the Dursleys' room. He opened the door a crack and checked that they were both still in bed. Once he was sure that they were, he began to tip-toe quietly down the stairs. He found a key next to the front door and let himself out.

The cold air hit him in the face and he wrapped his coat tighter around himself. He closed the front door softly, before finding a spot in one of the flowerbeds below the window to hide in. He would stay here for the whole night and, when the postman showed up, he would climb out and get his letter himself. This way, neither of the Dursleys could interfere. Settling back, he rested his head on the ground.

o0o0o0o

Darkness

That was all there was. No light. No sound. Nothing at all which any of the human senses could detect. There was only the emptiness, the sort which could send a person mad if they spent any decent length of time in it.

That was where Harry found himself or perhaps, it would be more appropriate to say, didn't find himself.

Suddenly, there was light. A bright green flash of light, accompanied by a sound not unlike that of a hurricane and the feeling of a thousand burning daggers being pressed into a single spot in the centre of his head. The air was filled with the pungent smell of burning flesh and a strange metallic taste which clung to the tongue. The sensations all seemed to be omnidirectional; they didn't come from anywhere, they were just there.

Then, the feelings were gone, as fast as they had come. The only thing which remained was a faint sound in the distance.

It was a scream. A high-pitched, painful scream. The scream of some wretched thing being torn in two. It was the sound of something dark, broken and angry. The sound of something evil.

o0o0o0o

Harry awoke with a start. He must have dozed off during the night, despite his reluctance to sleep. He looked up from where he lay, surrounded by flowers, and glanced at the sky. It was still early morning from the looks of it and the Dursleys were probably still in bed.

He shut his eyes and groaned, raising one hand to trace the mark on his forehead. It was not the first time he'd had this dream and he seriously doubted that it would be the last. It was always the same, with the endless darkness followed by an explosion of colour and sound. The only aspect of his dream which ever changed was the final moments. It was on very rare occasions that he could make out the scream in the background as the other sounds faded away.

It hadn't taken him that long to figure out that what he was seeing was the crash which killed his parents. It would explain the strange rushing sound and the white-hot pain which went through his forehead, although he wasn't sure where all of that green light came from. The scream didn't seem to fit with that theory either. He had often wondered if it was one of his parents, but he didn't think so. Something about the scream grated at him and left him feeling unclean after he heard it. He was sure that neither of his parents could have ever made a sound so tortured and inhuman, no matter bad the Dursleys' made them sound.

Harry stayed hidden under the window for at least half an hour, until he spotted the postman approaching from the end of the street. He sat himself up and prepared to creep out into view, but ducked back down again when he heard the front door begin to open. He watched in dismay as Uncle Vernon stepped out into the morning sun and made his way to the end of the drive, tearing into a bacon sandwich in one hand as he went.

Mr Dursley met the other man outside Number 4 and had a brief conversation with him. It appeared that he was confused as to why Vernon had come out to meet him. Eventually, he handed over a stack of letters and Harry watched from a distance in defeat as Vernon waved him away.

Vernon turned to look right at the place where Harry was hidden. Clearly, he had already anticipated that his nephew would try something like this. He held up his right hand and showed off three pieces of parchment with emerald writing on them, grinning victoriously. He strolled back into the house, whistling a tune as he did so.

When Harry entered the kitchen a minute or two later, he found his Uncle stood by the sink, holding a box of matches while he watched something burn. Harry didn't need to look to know what it was. He forced himself to quench the anger bubbling in his chest and slumped into a chair. He grabbed some food, hardly hearing his Aunt berating him for dirtying his clothes.

That evening, Harry walked into the hall to find Vernon crouched by the door and Petunia stood over him with a worried look on her face. A closer look showed Harry that his Uncle was actually nailing the letter-box shut.

"-they can't deliver them, then they'll stop sending them," his Uncle was saying.

"I'm not sure that will work Vernon," said his Aunt, "They can be very creative when they want to be."

"As much as I love to insult them, they're not stupid," said Vernon, "I know this won't stop them, but they should get the message that we're not interested once they see it. Then they'll leave us alone."

Petunia still looked dubious, but remained quiet. Harry didn't even bother to ask who they were talking about. Their answer wasn't going to change.

On Friday, it became clear that Uncle Vernon's efforts had indeed been in vain. No fewer than twelve letters showed up, Harry was actually impressed by how creative the people writing to him had gotten. The letters had been slotted through cracks in the door or pushed through various windows, meaning that they cropped up all over the house. His Aunt and Uncle dashed about the house all morning, trying to gather up all of the letters before Harry could snatch one away.

Vernon was getting increasingly irritable, snapping at people for the smallest things. He spent that day boarding up every tiny crack which was big enough to fit a letter through, all the while grumbling to himself about people not knowing when they weren't wanted.

On Saturday, Vernon was nearly at breaking point. Thirty letters showed up addressed to Harry that day. Most of them had been rolled up and hidden inside the egg boxes which Petunia received through the window, but a few of them had miraculously found their way into the cereal boxes in the cupboards.

Dudley was very confused by this whole turn of events, he had never seen his parents fuss so much over something that wasn't him. He constantly tried to shift their attention away from Harry and his letters and back onto him, doing everything from hanging off his mother's arm all day to throwing his pet tortoise through the roof of the greenhouse.

This did nothing to help Vernon's mood. By this point, the big man was downright dangerous. His face seemed to have reached a permanent shade of red and he never spoke to anyone calmly, always snapping or shouting. He could be seen stalking about the house and randomly opening drawers and cupboards, searching for any hidden letters.

On Sunday, Vernon looked very tired and ill, but had some semblance of a smile on his face. Once they were all sat at the table, he declared cheerfully, "Fine day, Sunday. Good breakfast, no work, a nice roast in the evening," he turned to Dudley and Harry, "What do you think boys, what's the best bit about a Sunday?"

Dudley shook his head, but Harry looked up glumly, knowing what his Uncle wanted him to say. "There's no post on Sundays," he guessed.

"Right you are Harry," nodded Vernon, grinning madly, "No post today, not one letter. Not a single bloody letter."

He giggled. The other three exchanged glances, all equally worried about Vernon's state of mind.

"Not one blasted-"

Out of nowhere, something flew into the room and hit him hard on the back of the head. Everyone looked around in confusion. Vernon bent and picked the object up off the floor. It was one of the letters.

"But it- they-" he spluttered, looking a bit lost.

The next moment, the entire room began to shake and sixty or seventy letters came shooting out of the fireplace, filling the kitchen completely. Petunia and Dudley screamed and ran from the room, but Harry stayed and tried to catch one. Vernon let out a roar like a wounded animal, his face turning purple. He grabbed Harry by the waist and pulled him into the hall, slamming the door shut behind them.

The letters continued to bombard the door from the other side, but it held fast. Vernon straightened and looked down at the other three. His eyes were burning and his face looked like it was about to pop.

"Pack your bags, all of you!" he ordered them, "We're leaving!"