Sorry it's taken so long to upload. I've been so busy, tons of exams and sometimes I just haven't been bothered.
Disclaimer - Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling
Long story-short, it didn't work. I had planned to sneak down and wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive. However, as I was so carefully tiptoeing down, I reached the front door and trod on something big and squashy on the doormat. Uncle Vernon. He had screamed as lights clicked on upstairs. I realised he was in his pyjamas, in a sleeping bag, and had probably been trying to stop me from doing exactly what I had been trying to do. He shouted for about half an hour before telling me to go make some tea. I shuffled off just as the post arrived – it dropped straight into his lap. He looked up at me gleefully as he ripped the three letters to shreds and waddled to the living room to deposit the rubbish in the fire.
That day, he didn't go to work. Instead, he stayed at home and nailed the letter box shut. It seemed as if he was convinced that if the letter box was off-limits, the letters would stop arriving.
He didn't know how wrong he was.
On Friday, twelve letters addressed to me arrived. With the letter box closed, they had been shoved under the front door, pushed in through the little window in the downstairs bathroom and even slotted through the sides of the back door. On finding them, Uncle Vernon promptly burned them, not even bothering to rip them. He boarded up the doors and windows, only leaving the living one board-less, but even that he locked.
The next day, twenty four letters arrived through the window that Uncle Vernon was so sure he'd locked the night before. A very confused milkman handed the milk and eggs through the window to Aunt, who laughed off his questions as if her husband's behaviour was perfectly normal. He didn't buy it.
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon came down the stairs in a surprisingly good mood. He sat down at the table, looking smug.
"No post on Sundays," he reminded us happily every thirty seconds, "no damn le–"
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney and caught him in the back of the head. He slumped forward as Aunt screamed and fifty or sixty letters came speeding down the chimney and flying in every direction, all addressed to me. I jumped up, and grabbed a letter, only to have it snatched out of my hand a second later. A bony had clamped around my wrist and dragged me towards the door. Aunt dragged Dudley and I upstairs before shoving us in our rooms.
"That's it," she said, "we're leaving. Take some clothes, but only what you need." We stood there for a moment, staring at her. "What are you waiting for?" she shouted, not unlike an army officer, "Go!"
We ran into our rooms as she scuttled downstairs to try and revive Uncle Vernon.
We left half an hour later, through the front door, which had been de-boarded. The front room was locked, so I didn't have a chance of grabbing a letter.
As we got into the car, Dudley asked his mum, "When are we coming back?"
"I don't know. I don't know," she said as Uncle Vernon locked the front door.
We drove for hours, only stopping once to get a sandwich and a drink from the services. I was restricted to a plain old cheese sandwich and water. I hated cheese.
We slept in the car that night, me in the foot-well while Dudley had the length of the two back seats.
We drove all the next day, stopping around one to get lunch. Cheese sandwich and water, again. By nightfall, we had arrived at the coast. He parked the car and ushered us all out. We stopped briefly at a little hut to rent a boat, and within ten minutes we were on the water, on the way to a small rock. As we neared it, I realised there was a tiny shack on the rock. Made of wood, it was completely weathered and worn, and was surrounded by a moat-like puddle. Great.
The inside didn't do much to improve my opinion of it. The worn wood was damp and the smell of mould hung in the air. The rickety old stairs were missing steps and the ground was cold. It was awful.
As night fell, a storm began, rattling the glass and making the door shake. It was freezing. Aunt Petunia found a few mouldy blankets upstairs and made up two beds, one on the moth-eaten sofa and one on the floor. Dudley bagged the one on the sofa as soon as she finished making it. We shared out some food Uncle Vernon had bought, and Aunt and Uncle Vernon went off to the upstairs room to sleep on the damp, lumpy mattress. Dudley fell asleep instantly, snoring loudly as I fidgeted in my "bed".
The storm became more ferocious as the night went on. I couldn't sleep. I shivered despite the blankets, and turned over. My stomach rumbled. We had all eaten something, but not enough to fill our stomachs. If I was starving, I could only imagine what Dudley was going through, always eating the most all his life. Around midnight, Dudley's snores were drowned out by the thunder and lightning. The lighted watched on Dudley's wrist, which was hanging off the end of the sofa, said that I'd be eleven years old in ten minutes time. I watched the numbers change on the watch as my birthday ticked nearer. I wondered whether the Dursleys would remember it. Forget it, I told myself. They never remembered my birthday any other year; why would they remember this one?
At five minutes to midnight, I heard something creak outside. I hoped the roof wouldn't cave in. It would put Uncle Vernon in an awful mood.
Two minutes to go. There was a funny crunching noise. Was it the rock crumbling into the sea?
One minute to midnight. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten – nine – eight – seven – six – five – four – three – two – one –
BOOM.
The whole shack quaked and I sat up straight, my eyes wide as I stared at the door. I could see two massive dark shapes that resembled feet between the crack of the door and the floor. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.
As always, please read and review. I should update soon, depending on school and how busy I am and all that jazz xxx