#rip my wax seal stamp you were a real one

[irulancorrino]

one of my packages...... came with a hole in it......... there's nothing in the bag...... I received a bag full of air

#rip my wax seal stamp you were a real one #gonna try to uwu the seller into sending me another one for free cuz who puts a relatively heavy metal thingy #into a flimsy ass bag #that or I leave a very sad angry review jdfhgskfjgh #also fun fact I made that moodboard after one of my d&d sessions cuz um. it was Like That #personal #val talks

[cauliflowercounty]

Meet Me in the Middle Pt. I (Fred Weasley x fem!Reader)

House: Ilvermorny, your choice

Blood Status: You Choose

Warning: A swear :)

A/N: You’re from the US in this fic!

I/H = Ilvermorny house

-----

“Settle down, students!” Professor McGonagall calls out to the group of 7th years in front of her. She glares over at the twins and Lee who are busy sticking their noses up and imitating her. Once they notice her intense glare, they quiet down, trying to stifle their laughter, still giddy from the start of school energy and being reunited after a long summer apart. 

“This year,” McGonagall begins “we’re initiating a new program in partnership with Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the United States.”

A chorus of murmurs floods through the group.

“For those interested, we are starting a pen friends program. Because of the success of last year in fostering international relationships with the Triwizard tournament, we thought it would be beneficial for both the student body here at Hogwarts and Ilvermorny’s to participate in this new program,” McGonagall explains to the group. All of the seventh years start to whisper to each other excitedly. Many of them comment on how this hadn’t been a possibility before or how they wonder what the wizarding world is like across the pond.

“You’ll receive one pen friend and if you sign up, I expect you to represent Hogwarts well, and remember this is a commitment. Don’t send the person one letter and then never again or there will be consequences,” McGonagall warns everyone. Despite her severe words, people grin with excitement. Fred Weasley thinks about it to himself as all his classmates clamor with excitement. He’d like to have a pen friend from the U.S., but he’s busy wondering if he’ll have the money to send them letters. He and George hadn’t actually sold many of their products yet and he only had just enough money to send letters to his parents back home and the occasional Honeydukes sweet or Zonko’s product. “Postage to the US must cost a lot since owls can’t go that far,” Fred thinks to himself. Maybe giving up the occasional Hogsmeade indulgence would be worth it.

“Cedric would have loved this,” one Hufflepuff near Fred murmurs and everyone falls silent, knowing what the Hufflepuff just said is absolutely true. Everyone in this year definitely felt Cedric’s absence in their year, but in this moment, the air felt heavy with guilt. McGonagall nods in agreement and sets out a paper for sign ups, adding postage will be paid for by Hogwarts and Ilvermorny. Hogwarts students will also write the first letter. Fred smiles in relief. He won’t have to spend all his savings.

“Oi, Freddie,” George nudges him.  “Are you going to sign up?”

Fred nods and rushes up to the paper that his classmates are crowding around. He takes out one of his quills and scratches his signature onto the parchment with a flourish. Returning to his best friends, Lee looks surprised. 

“I didn’t take you for a pen friend sort of guy, mate,” lee comments.

“What can I say, I’m spontaneous,” Fred replies, sure of himself this was the right choice. Leaving the room with George and Lee, Fred heads to his dorm room to start writing his first letter.

When he arrives in his room, he gets out a piece of parchment and sets up a small workspace on his desk.  Just as he sits down, he stops and starts fiddling with his quill. After a few seconds of hesitation, Fred decided to suck it up and start writing.

Hello,

I’m Fred Weasley. I apologise if this letter is a little awkward. It’s my first time ever writing to someone I don’t know at all. I’m in 7th year and I’m a Gryffindor, which values courage and bravery, if you don’t know.  

I have a twin brother. His name is George. We’re like the school pranksters. We currently are developing a line of sweets that make you sick so you can get out of class and other products that people would want like little objects that go off to cause a diversion, We’re also thinking about fireworks, but our main specialty is sweets. It all shows promise.

Georgie and I have never been academics, we’re more pranksters at heart if I’m honest. We’re quite good at charms and enchantments, though. I’m rubbish at potions, though. I hate to be boring, but what’s your favorite subject? I can’t think of anything other than that to ask you, but maybe in a future letter, we can talk about more interesting topics other than school.

Hope to hear from you,

Fred Weasley

Satisfied with his work, Fred folds his letter up and seals it tightly with a wax seal. The next day, he turns it in to McGonagall, who informs him it will be sent within the week. Walking away from McGonagall, Fred starts wondering who his pen friend is.

~

As the following Tuesday rolls around, an unfamiliar owl swoops into the 7th year Gryffindor boys dorms. Attached to its leg is a neatly closed, pristine envelope with “Fred Weasley” written in unfamiliar handwriting.  It hoots loudly at Fred, who scrambles off his bed, knocking a few prototype sweets onto the floor he was just working on with George. 

“Oi! Watch it, Fred!” George protests, but Fed’s already at the window, trying to pry the letter off the owl’s leg. As Fred gets a better look at the letter, he finds the front has been stamped with a MACUSA red stamp reading “INTERNATIONAL” complete with an eagle beside it. Excited, Fred rips open the letter and sits down on his bed, ignoring George who’s trying to get his attention back on the products. Once he’s comfortable, Fred opens up the letter and starts to read.

Hello, Fred Weasley.

I’m y/n. There’s no reason to be sorry that your letter is a bit awkward. Letters like this are out of my comfort zone as well. If it makes you feel any better, your letter felt perfectly natural.

I’m a 6th year in I/H. It’s honestly the best house of all of them. Thunderbird is for adventurers, Pukwudgie is for healers, Wampus is for warriors, and Horned Serpent is for scholars. Fun Fact: Ilvermorny was actually founded by a descendant of Salazar Slytherin and a No-Maj!  

You and your brother must be quite the dynamic duo. Starting a business is no easy feat, but it sounds amazingly interesting. I can’t believe you two were the first to think of sweets that make you sick to get out of class, but I’m glad you two got to the idea first. Please keep me posted on how your other products are coming along! They all sound amazing!

I also like charms and enchantments. My Charms teacher is really awesome. I honestly can’t decide what my favorite subject is. All of them have their ups and downs.

What’s it like at Hogwarts? I hear it’s a castle, but what’s the inside like?

- y/n y/l/n

George looks over at his brother and notices how widely he’s grinning. George notices the “international” stamp on the envelope and realizes what it is and now he’s no longer mad at Fred for knocking the prototypes on the floor as Fred scrambles to grab some parchment to write back.

~

A two and a half months later, you and Fred have exchanged many letters; you’ve exchanges so many you’ve both forgotten what round you’re on. A week ago, Fred sent along some of his products after you told him about the two Wampus bullies in your year, James and Martin, who enjoy tormenting you about your looks, smarts, and everything else under the sun. The package included a box of sparklers and then some sickness-inducing sweets. Alongside the box of charmed sweets, he also sent a box of real chocolates and a note.

The red box with the “W” has the charmed sweets in it! DO NOT EAT UNLESS YOU WANT TO BREAK OUT IN BOILS! The other box has some of my mom’s English toffee for you to try.

Giggling a little from his warning note, you wrote back and thanked him profusely for the gifts and promptly used the sickness sweets on both Wampus lugs, who ran off to the infirmary with large puss-filled growths protruding from their face in embarrassment.  When your dorm mates asked who the real chocolates were from, you feel your heartbeat in your chest as a light blush flushes over your cheeks, thinking of Fred.

Getting out of Potions, you take a walk outside to study as an owl swoops down. You take the letter, recognizing Fred’s handwriting.  

Y/n,

I’m glad the sweets worked. The two of them absolutely deserved it and now we know the boils can last for over 48 hours. That’s valuable information for Georgie and me.

Listen, I don’t want to overstep, but I was wondering if I could know what you look like? We’ve been mailing each other for such a long time and It’s been on my mind. I usually have a face I can put to a name. I’ve enclosed a picture of me in this letter and If you’re comfortable, I was wondering if you’d send one back? No pressure.

F.W.

P.S. The canary creams are a hit!

You look behind the letter and pull out the enclosed picture. You see a tall pale boy with flaming ginger hair. He’s smirking along with someone who looks exactly like him in the background messing with a familiar orange and purple Weasley box. In the picture, Fred has circled the twin in the foreground and labeled it “Fred” and the one in the background “my less handsome brother, George.” You let out a little chuckle. This is exactly what you expected from Fred.

~

A week and a half have passed since Fred sent the letter with the picture in it. With each passing day, Fred worries he’s driven you off with being too forward. He’s considering writing a letter to apologize and beg things can go back to the way it was. he misses writing to you and having to enchant the parchment so it looks scrambles so Umbridge doesn’t read his mail to you about the D.A. and then getting back mail you’ve charmed to look like doodles in a notebook. It was like your own code that you’d both have to undo to read.  

He missed hearing about ilvermorny and your classes. He longed for the day he could hear about the plan you’d set up with Fred’s help for revenge on James and Martin where you’d charm fireworks to go off and chase them around the Ilvermorny grounds until they admitted they were assholes.

George and Lee assured him that he had nothing to worry about, that you probably got busy with school work and will write back soon. Lee also suggested your letter might have gotten lost in the mail, but that thought only made Fred worry. Maybe you had sent a message long ago and you weren’t getting a response because he hadn’t gotten one yet, and maybe he shouldn’t send a letter now because it might pop up once he sends his own letter and he’ll look like an idiot. he can only hope a letter from you is on its way now.

As Fred begins to descend into another pit of worry the next day, an owl comes to land at his side. Fred grabs the letter with fervor, nearly knocking the poor owl off its feet in excitement. The owl hoots angrily in protest at Fred’s sudden movement and flies away after pouting and ruffling its feathers. He rips the envelope open, almost damaging the letter itself. Taking out his wand, he rushes to a bathroom so no member of the inquisitorial squad or Umbridge herself can see him take the charm off the paper that currently has a drawing of a sloth on it.

Dear Freddie,

I’m sorry for not getting back to you in the last week or so. I had a midterm and I didn’t want to let you down by only sending you a scrap of paper saying I had a test. I hope it went well.

Thanks for sharing that picture with me. You and your brother are very cute together. I didn’t expect your hair to be so bright, but then again, I’m not around many people with red hair. I’ve also sent you a picture of me. It was taken during Care of Magical Creatures. The niffler unit was my favorite. They’re like magical platypuses!

I hope it’s what you expected? I don’t know what to say (haha).

Wow! The Canary Creams are working finally? That’s awesome! Did feathers get everywhere? Who was the poor test subject?

I’m glad everything is working out, Freddie.  

- Y/n

Fred smiles down at the paper from within the stall. You’ve always been supportive of the business. You were almost as excited about it as he and George were. He looks down at the picture you’ve sent along with your letter and his heart skips a little bit. 

You’re smiling at the camera with a niffler in your arms. As the picture moves, you laugh as the niffler squirms and tries to reach for the shiny watch on your wrist. As he observes the picture more, he sees there’s a warm twinkling in your eye. you look so happy. Returning to his dorm room, Fred opens his trunk and tucks the photograph into the corner of his trunk next to some logo designs and a family picture with a pair of horns and a monocle drawn on Percy. He smiles. That’s where that picture will stay.

~

Time has passed, yet you and Fred have kept in touch. Fred’s now living above the shop in Diagon Alley with George after their grand escape from Hogwarts, which you supported him through one hundred percent despite never ever meeting.  

Throughout the months, you’ve both been mailing and you’ve helped him develop new products, acting as a remote filter and outside perspective for the twins, which you enjoyed the process of.  

All the while Fred has supported you through your last year at Ilvermorny since you’re a year younger than he is. Even though he didn’t finish school doesn’t mean he can’t support and help you at all.  

Through your letters, you’ve started calling him “your special Freddie,” making Fred’s heart swoop and swoon as he imagines what your voice sounds like saying it to him.  Time goes on and he’s falling, but Fred doesn’t resist it.  You’ve always been there for him and he knows he’ll be there for you through think and thin.  As he realizes he’s in love, he starts to worry that you won’t return his feelings, but even if you don’t he still wants you in his life.  You make him happy.  It’s as simple as that.

After getting up one morning, Fred heads down to the shop to do inventory downstairs. He notices that it’s darker outside today, even more so today than usual. Both he and Georgie have noticed things have been darkening lately with Voldemort and his followers running around Britain, but today is especially dark.  

Fred hears a knock at the door of the shop. The shop was closed today and most of the regulars knew that this wasn’t a time they’d be open. Cautiously, Fred draws his wand and approaches the door, careful to not step into view in case it wasn’t a welcomed guest. Fred peeks around the corner and notices it’s his father. Wand still drawn, he cautiously approaches the door.

“Which twin said ‘honestly woman, you call yourself our mother?’ at the station before my third year?” Fred asks through the glass at the man he thinks is his father, knowing his dad wants to abide by Ministry guidance about identification.

“Fred did,” Mr. Weasley answers but notices how Fred’s face sinks a bit at his response.  “You did. Sorry, Fred.”

Fred cautiously lets him in, not putting his wand away,

“Fred, Dumbledore is dead,” Mr. Weasley explains.  “Snape was the one who carried it out.”

“That tr-” Fred starts, but Mr. Weasley holds his hand up.

“I know, Fred. I just wanted to come by and tell you before you get it from the Prophet. I also wanted to tell you... We’re not safe anymore. The ministry has most likely been infiltrated or will be infiltrated in the next few days. Keep your guard up. With Dumbledore gone, this fight just got much more difficult,” Arthur explains, sighing deeply and rubbing his face.  “I trust you’ll tell George?”

Fred nods as his dad says goodbye and gives him a “see you soon” before apparating away. Fred locks the door and puts down the shutters with his wand. He rushes up the stairs and scribbles on a piece of parchment his last letter to you before the war, explaining what’s happening, that the mail is probably going to be tracked and opened, that things are getting dangerous. He insists that you shouldn’t write back even if it’s tempting and that he’ll write to you once the war is over.  Fred considers signing it “Love, Fred” because this might be the last time he ever writes to you, but doesn’t; he just writes:

See you on the other side of the war, y/n. Stay safe. 

Yours truly, Fred Weasley

-----

Read Part 2 Here!

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #weasley twins #Harry Potter

[riley-the-pan-nonbinary]

My Brothers’ Enemy. Part 2

Draco Malfoy x Potter!Reader

part 1 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

masterlist 

A few days later Harry grabbed the mail from the door as I served breakfast, he brought I a stacked of letters, but two caught my eye; they looked as though they were written with quill and ink and sealed with a wax stamp. Harry held them curiously sliding me one that was addressed to me, but it strangely even had the fact that I slept under the stairs, Dudley grabbed both mine and Harry's letters screaming about how we had them, Uncle Vernon asked something like 'who would send you letters?' when he turned the letter Aunt Petunia looked terrified and Dudley was confused, our uncle then ripped the letter up and threw us in our closet.

Over the next few days more and more letters started appearing and so did owls, Uncle Vernon was reaching every measure to ensure we never opened a single letter. I had theories that it was about our parents' fortune. I mean, they had to have left us something. On Sunday uncle Vernon looked crazy, he was so happy post never came on Sunday then. All the sudden letters where surrounding us, entering through the chimney and broke through the blocked of mail slot in the door, I ran to try and get a letter but Aunt Petunia grabbed my arms and pulled them behind my back as Uncle Vernon did the same to Harry then he yelled how we were all leaving.

Now is nearly midnight harry is drawing in the dirt in the floor we are sleeping on when the clock strikes midnight it will be me and Harry's 11th birthday, at 11:59 he calls me over, I then see he drew a cake with "HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY & (Y/N)" when we hear a  beep from Dudley's watch we blow the dirt as though it was real, I turned and hugged Harry.

"Happy birthday (Y/N)," Harry whispers

"Happy birthday Harry," I say in return. The next thing I know there is a loud knock coming from the door, Uncle and Aunt come bursting down stairs with a gun the door is kicked down, and a large man with a long beard walks through, Harry hides and I stare frozen in shock.

#draco x reader #draco malfoy #potter!reader #MyBrothers'Enemy #harry potter x sister #first year #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone #Fan fiction #reader insert #Harry potter x sibling!reader

[mrneighbourlove]

Monsters: Ch 1. Where Monsters lie, Innocence Dies

Ralnor had been in his office all day. There was much work to be done. Though, occasionally, there was muffled whispering. Some of the staff thought that the second crown prince was talking to himself. Others wondered if his office was haunted by an old ghost. His spies, however, knew exactly what it was; the monster in the walls. A story floated around in the circle of Ralnor's spies, saying he sent a group to the old tunnels to find more information about a supposed creature sneaking around in the underground catacombs. When the scouts did not return, all that was found of them were dismembered body parts. Supposedly, the prince was the only one who could see or speak to this horrible fiend in the dark. Somehow, he managed to appeal to this monster's better nature... or maybe he was feeding it his enemies. Either way, the spies never dared to say a word against their master.

Miranda finally grew close enough to the spies to listen to stories they shared. A story of a monster in the walls, she didn’t think anything of it, until one day, on a return trip to the castle, she smelled something coming from a sewer grate. Investigating she came across a decayed corpse of someone wearing a Hylian emblem. What really creeped her out, was what she thought she heard a growl coming from deep in the darkened sewage tunnels. Running back to her boss, she did not have the experience yet to not speak her mind about the rumours. “My Prince. There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”

"... did I not ask you to knock before entering my office?" Ralnor did not even look up from his paperwork, continuing to write with his quill. The whispering disappeared as soon as the girl stepped foot in the room. He would have to remind Klinge yet again to discipline the kid. She had to learn there was a proper way to address a situation. "What is so urgent that you must interrupt my work, Miranda?"

“I’m sorry my lord.” Miranda gave a bow. She did her best to adjust to all of Ralnor’s rules. “I heard rumours about a monster under Hyrule. I didn’t think anything of it, but I discovered a corpse of a soldier coming from the sewage system. I think there’s a threat to the security of the people my lord. If the rumours are true, this has been going on for a while. The corpse I discovered had unique bite marks, nothing like any normal animal. I have reason to believe that this is either a very rabid creature, or something far more dangerous, like a real monster.”

"You really believe that story of a monster in the underground?" Ralnor chuckled at Miranda's words, brushing off her worries. He had to save face. No one could know about the creature in the catacombs. "Listen, if you're such a child to believe in fairy tales, then perhaps you'd be better suited to be a babysitter than a scout." The second prince glanced up from his paperwork, only once to look at Miranda. "A decomposed body may look like he has unknown bite marks due to the rats chewing on the flesh. I wouldn't be surprised if this supposed 'monster' of yours is perhaps a disposed exotic pet, like a crocodile."

"I-I'm not a child sir!" Her long ears drooped like a puppy who had been scolded. "Regardless of why or how it happened, there's a dead body of a soldier of this nation found in the sewers. I doubt he just got there for exploration’s sakes and eaten by some swamp dragon. We should investigate it further, to prevent anyone else from getting hurt!"

"My men know better than to wander around in the catacombs." Ralnor stated as he dripped wax onto a letter and then stamped it with his seal. "Whatever reason he was down there for, he obviously did not listen to me nor cared about the danger of the old traps. Those tunnels are as old as Hyrule itself and full of peril. The men know not to venture down there and I don't want you going in there either. That is final."

Miranda was about to say something, but stopped herself. Her ears continued to droop. “Yes sir...”

"Now, run along and remember to knock next time." Ralnor reminded the young girl. As she started to exit his office, he said, "And I better not hear of you in those tunnels. I want you alive and well."

“But you said nothing was down there.”

"There's nothing but traps, and I won't have you fall into one because of your insatiable curiosity."

“Ok.” Her ears shot back up and she hopped back to the Prince when she remembered her second objective for entering his office. She handed him a journal containing private dark thoughts of a tutor and bowed. “My last mission my lord. Turns out there was indeed a plot to blackmail your youngest sister.”

"I figured as much." Ralnor's hunches were almost always correct. "And you took care of the problem?"

“I don’t hurt people sir. Just ‘borrow’ all the evidence you need.”

"Very well. I'll see to it that the problem is fixed." Ralnor then instructed her. "Go train with Klinge."

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.” She bowed again and bounded off, not picking up any other presence near by.

Later on in the evening, the servants were avoiding Ralnor's office. Once more, all of the maids swore there was whispering. Perhaps his office really was haunted. After a long night finishing up work, the second prince strolled through the hallway with a book in his hand about ancient poisons.

Miranda couldn’t shake the feeling in her heart about something being terribly wrong. If Ralnor wouldn’t do anything about it, than perhaps Klinge would.

“Klinge! I have news to report!”

Klinge was in his office looking at the clock tic by. Every second going by another reminder of his life never able to end. The Dark Elf barely broke him out of his trance. “Yes Miranda?”

“I found a body in the sewers of Hyrule! I heard rumours of a monster in the underground of Hyrule, so I believe something is incredibly off about this.”

Klinge sighed softly. “So you believe any rumours about a monster now?”

“I know, I know. It’s exactly what Ralnor said, and he was incredibly shady about the subject. He didn’t care that a soldier of Hyrule was ripped apart! I know it was no crocodile.” The Dark Elf slammed her hand on the table. “I know about the rumours that come from Ralnor’s office. I also know there’s major hush-hush with the thieving society around a group that “shall not be named” in Hyrule! My gut is telling me there’s a great danger in Hyrule!”

Klinge pauses to consider it. He too had heard the rumours, but never found the evidence for it. It did make him curious though. And a body of one of his men had to be taken seriously. “Very well Miranda. At the least, we shall recover this body you found.”

Miranda’s eats shot up through her white hair in excitement at being taken seriously. “Thank you sir! I’ll take you there right away!”

Little did the two know that Ralnor had eyes and ears everywhere. There could be no trouble for the underground. What this world knew of monsters had to be limited. When Klinge and Miranda arrived to the body site, there was evidence of blood and decayed flesh... but no corpse.

Miranda was nearly distraught. “It was here!”

Klinge took note of the blood, and stain that dragged backwards into the tunnel. “I believe you.”

Picking up a piece of wood, he turned it in a makeshift torch and handed it to Miranda. “Follow me.”

He stepped into the sewer and started to investigate the blood trail.

The sewer went deep into the heart of Hyrule, yet connected to it was plenty of routes into the catacombs. It was a death maze without a map. Some of the tunnels had caved in over the years and others promised a grisly end with the remains of bones. It was an eerie feeling like the two of them were being watched. Not even rats dared to dwell in this place.

Miranda felt a chill run up her spine. This place felt old, but no longer empty. Klinge however felt nothing for this place. It was just another maze. “Interesting. Anything could be hiding in here.”

Miranda didn’t like the implication of that. Her mother always told her stories of boogeymen hiding in the dark to make her behave as a child. “But you think something is in here?”

“Catacombs this large are like a labyrinth. And labyrinths always hold something...”

Klinge walked to the walls, reading very old Hylian inscriptions.

The text on the concrete wall spoke of how the catacombs used to be a burial ground for the common wealth. The farmland was too precious to sacrifice as a graveyard, so the people were buried here to save space. It warned not to disturb the dead or trespass on their grounds. Promises of demise would greet those who did not respect the wishes of those who had already passed on into the next realm. As the two journeyed deeper into the catacombs, bones started to make up the walls....

The undead warrior glared at the signs. He knew no demise worse than the fate of his undying existence. The dead had no thoughts or messages to give. Miranda really do not like all the skulls that made up the walls. "Klinge. I don't like this place."

"If you see any Statlfos or Redead, stay close and remember your training."

"Klinge, what if we enter the Shadow Temple."

"That's near Kakariko Village. Nowhere near here."

"But-"

"Hush. Keep your ears and eyes open, and your mouth shut."

The Dark Elf did as she was told. Both continued down further and further.

The shadows moved without warning. Water dripped from the ceiling, causing a faint echo throughout the tunnels here and there. Though there were some unsettling signs. More corpses littered the tunnels like the one before, but different signs of death. One unfortunate soul was wrapped in what looked like spider webbing, drained of blood. Another had a hole the size of a melon in his chest, as if something huge had pierced him. Perhaps the grossest was a corpse that had been partly digested and then regurgitated. Bones were scattered across the floor in all directions.

It was too much for the Dark Elf, and she threw up. She could steal from men, make jokes at Bokoblins and criminals screaming for her death, and even swing a punch at some creep. That was fun. That was adventure. This was no adventure. This death all around her clashed against her more innocent viewpoint of the world. Klinge examined the bodies closely. “Take our your camera and capture the evidence. Now.”

Miranda took out her pictograph box and started to take pictures of the corpses. It only held black and white photos, but they were clear enough, the flash going off for each photo taken. Klinge could have sworn he’d seen signs of these attacks before. Did a Gohma spider lay the web? It was a monster big and terrible enough to do the kind of damage to the first two corpses, however, the third corpse didn’t fit its M.O.

The first flash from the camera revealed a tail, slinking back into darkness, fading as the light did. The second flash displayed a pair of red eyes observing from the shadows, narrowed and angry. The third flash sealed Miranda's fate as a figure emerged from the blackness too quick for the eye to see. Clawed hands snatched the elf, unseen to both Miranda and Klinge.

Miranda let out a scream as she was taken, dropping the camera. Her mind raced to her sick mother and how stupid she was for coming here.

Klinge wiped around, his mind racing at this sudden attack. “Miranda!”

Grabbing the torch he ran after her, frantic to find her. “Miranda! Hold on!!!”

As Klinge ran through the tunnels, it was like a rat trying to find its way out of an endless maze with no exit. A dark laugh echoed and taunted him from all directions. Miranda was still alive... for now. She was still screaming and perhaps now, crying too. When the commander ran into a connector, there was a small streams of light from lit torches hanging on the side of the walls. Five options of a path awaited him.... yet Miranda's dagger fell from above to the floor with a clatter, causing the undead to look upward.

A monster was hanging from the ceiling.

Those coils seemed to have no end from what little light the fire provided. The tiny elf was wrapped from neck to ankle with black scales, still moving along her skin. The expression on her face was one of shock and absolute terror. One hand emerged from the shadows and then another, placed expertly on the stones. Then the face of horror slowly crept from the darkness with a demented grin and flickering tongue. Indeed there was a monster beneath Hyrule.

"Come to slay old Bonegrinder?" The creature actually laughed, highly amused as a single claw traced over Miranda's cheek. "Or does he have two new playthings? He so does love to play, you see, chase and chase and chase until he gets them and they scream, so lovely, yes, the screams..."

Miranda’s tears would not stop falling from her face. Her mouth quivered in terror. “P-please. N-no.”

Klinge studied this thing that slivered from the darkness. It had the body of a serpent, and an upper body of a humanoid. It was indeed a monster. But so was Klinge, and the Undead would not be intimidated for the sake of Miranda.

He summoned his bow and arrow, taking aim. “Return. My apprentice. Now.”

"Oh, this your pet? Pity, pity." Bonegrinder's huge body moved freely about the columns holding up the ceiling. The monster did not even seem worried about a weapon. "Don't you know, you're supposed to keep pets on a leash? Otherwise, if it goes out into the wild, it just might get..." He flicked his tongue again, that mouth full of jagged teeth so close to Miranda's face. "Eaten."

“I am Klinge. Blade of the Gerudo. The Slayer. Identify yourself.”

Miranda gave a light scream. “No, no, no, no! Klinge, please help me. I-I want my mom.”

Klinge looked her in the eye, the first time in years he tapped his bow in worry. “Everything is going to be ok Miranda. You’ll see her soon.”

"Oooh, the undead one, the tool of the royals, the gloomy, ever depressed, hollow shell of a man who wishes nothing more than to depart from this realm... but can't." The monster chuckled darkly as Klinge kept the arrow raised and ready to fire. "Yes, yes, Bonegrinder knows all about you, he can feel your surprise. Let's see, what else does he know? Oh yes, he knows you fought with Zelda all those years ago, and... right..." His upper half twisted upside down, a lopsided callous grin on his face. "You let her kill your wife. No wonder you blame the queen, when you really should blame yourself." He shook a clawed finger at the commander. "And now, you're letting this little pet come in here? Where danger lurks around every corner? Tsk, you must not care at all what happens to her." The snake man's jaw unhinged, his mouth impossibly large. "Maybe she'll be a good snack, resting in Bonegrinder's belly until he tires of her."

Miranda screamed aloud, hollering at the top of her lungs for safety and her mother. Klinge felt his dark side rise within him. This abomination was old enough or clever enough to know about his life. Worse, it mocked him. It mocked every fibre that made Klinge what he was. The Undead warrior made a promise that he would destroy this thing. But first, he would save Miranda. This snake was close enough for Klinge’s magic to work. Hopefully she wouldn’t suffer.

In his wrath, he was completely silent. Raising a fist, he clenched it and pulled back, energy spears generating from behind the snake to pierce his tail and mouth. If the gods listened, he prayed they’d allowed him to catch Miranda safely.

The spears did indeed pierce the snake, causing him to drop Miranda. The elf was not totally unharmed, broken bones and bruises from Bonegrinder's coils squeezing her so tightly during the struggle. Though, the attack did not kill the monster. No, it merely made him... laugh? It was a maniacal laugh, one devoid of sanity. Slithering down from the ceiling, the fiend removed the spear from his mouth, a gaping hole there. Creepily, the skin started to patch itself back together, as if the wound had never been there in the first place.

"Oh, you stupid tool..." Bonegrinder's jaw locked back into place with a malicious smile. Those red eyes leered at him as his tail started to snuff out the torches. "You know that you cannot kill what is already... dead."

Klinge caught Miranda with one arm, the Dark Elf falling unconscious after being released. This thing was like him? Then let it see the light. He threw up a wall of dark fire at Bonegrinder. With great intensity, he ran off with Miranda back to the surface. He couldn’t fight with her here. So instead he would retreat.

Bonegrinder did not pursue the two intruders in the catacombs. No, the undead commander would report back to the second prince. There was no need for concern, everything would play in his favor. After all, the prince would not deny him. Ralnor was smart enough to know not to cross a monster. Licking the outside of his jaws, he murmured to himself, "Run, run, undead... run away back to your master."

Klinge promised he’d be back. Arriving at the castle, he dropped Miranda on Doctor Boveir’s operation table. “She needs a physical examination and mental care when she wakes up.”

"Good goddesses, Klinge, what happened to her?" Doctor Boveir took a look over the tiny elf's body and winced aloud. "She has multiple fractures. I'm going to call in a Dusa to help me... what happened?"

“Fix her.”

Doctor Boveir frowned and decided not to ask further questions. He first administered a light sedative to keep Miranda asleep, because she would be in a high level of discomfort after setting the bones. Once the on call Dusa arrived, the two set to work about healing the dark elf.

Klinge walked to his office. Miranda would be safe while with the doctors. Sitting at his desk he let his anger fester deep inside him. The silence made him more angry.

It was not long before Ralnor knocked on Klinge's office door. The second prince heard from his spies that the commander and the dark elf traveled down to the catacombs. He had strictly ordered for no one to be down there for any reason.

“Come in Prince.” Klinge didn’t even need to see who was behind the door to know who was coming.

Ralnor opened the door and then shut it behind him with an angry slam.

"I explicitly ordered that no one went into the catacombs, Klinge. That includes you."

“You think you have power over me?” Klinge squeezes his fists together as he held both elbows on his table. “Tell me. What was that thing I discovered.”

"I am your prince, the least I demand from you is respect! You have free reign on whatever you wish to do, who you want to kill, what you say to others, I don't stop you, but when I give an order, I have good reason for it to be followed!" Ralnor snapped harshly at the commander. "... what do you think you discovered?"

“I investigated the death of one of my men. I don’t allow my soldiers to be discarded like one of your spies Ralnor! I followed a trail to the catacombs. I found a monster by the name of Bonegrinder.” When he saw a visible reaction from Ralnor at that name, Klinge nearly exploded in anger, rising from his chair to walk around his desk and face Ralnor. “What do you know about it? Because you do know something about it. You are going to reveal what you know to me, now boy.”

"One of your men who defied my orders, defied your orders. No better than a traitor." Ralnor had grown cold and callous as he aged. It seemed like his best kept secret was now at risk of being known. Klinge and Miranda had traveled deep enough into the monster's territory to encounter him. "... thanks to you crossing into his domain, I fear now what I'll have to do to appease him." The second prince took a deep breath and tried to tame his ire. "Bonegrinder is an ancient monster from the lands of Omisha; an Anagari."

“My men? Are you speaking of a dead man, or Miranda? And what do you mean appease?”

"Whoever traveled down into those catacombs defied my orders, and thus is no longer my concern." Ralnor then snorted. "Miranda insisted on pursuing the evidence she found when I told her not to do so. She's next in line for insubordination. I'll deal with her later." The prince then explained to Klinge with a dry laugh. "Appease? Did you not see him, Klinge? Or did he move too fast for you do to so? That creature lurks in the underground catacombs and is the hidden head of crime. Anyone who displeases him is eaten. Thieves, black market items, drugs, prostitution, all of that? He rules." He frowned at the commander. "He's older than he looks too. Way older."

Klinge slapped Ralnor across the face. He was completely livid with his nephew. “Your actions disgust me Ralnor. You will not dare lay a hand on Miranda. That girl only did what she thought was the noble thing, and followed my orders to pursue it further. And now she has suffered enough for that. You have not only thrown away your honour by lying in bed with a monster, but a kingpin? What would your brother think? Your wife. Your father .... or your children.” Klinge clenched his fist, reeling in the fact he wanted to beat the life out of the prince. “You allow this thing to fester in Hyrule, to control you, to make you number 2. It seems that’s the place you feel suited to isn’t it. Now tell me, before I spill your secrets out to them all, why you allow that thing to ensnare you.”

Ralnor grunted when Klinge slapped him but stood his ground. This was nothing he had not suffered through before. The blow to the face caused his lip to bust and a trickle of blood to run down his chin.

"... because he can't be killed." Ralnor said lowly, a dark glare on his face. "And I won't risk the lives of my family for an idiot commander and dimwitted dark elf who don't realize exactly how dire this situation is." The prince would do whatever was necessary to ensure the safety of those he cared for, no matter what the price. "It's better to placate a monster than to risk it's ire. I learned that from you."

"Heheheheh..." A voice snickered from inside the walls. "Little prince, did you send this undead twig after Bonegrinder? Oh, he had fun watching the elf scream and the festered pile of flesh twitch from her cries. Won't you send more? You know old Bonegrinder so enjoys the... snacks... that dare to cross into his home."

If looks could kill, Klinge would already be in the next realm.

"... even if I say no, you're still angry." Ralnor spoke in a soft voice. "I gave orders to my men not to cross into the catacombs. You heard me doing so."

"Can't you keep your dogs on a leash? Better yet, why don't you just use dark magic to keep this tool in order?" Bonegrinder inquired, his voice coming from a different direction this time. "It would be easy, Bonegrinder could show you."

Klinge looked down at Ralnor, and the Prince felt an aura from him he never felt before. This wasn’t simple anger, or disappointment. This was something far more dark inside Klinge. “Get. Out.”

That warning could have been for either one of them.

"Hehehe, did old Bonegrinder touch a nerve, corpse?" The snake monster chuckled from inside the walls. "He will be watching you. Nothing you can hide from him."

Ralnor wiped the blood off his chin and turned on his heel. Exiting the office, the second prince walked to his bedroom to check on his wife. With a relieved sigh, he found Cass fast asleep with little Ukuri in her bassinet. It was late but sleep would not come to him, he knew this. Taking his sleeping daughter into his arms, Ralnor sat against a stack of pillows on the bed and silently kept watch.

Klinge went to the darkest reaches of his mind. This thing had festered itself too deeply in the lives of Ralnor and the family to be kept alive. It kept had insulted him too far to be allowed to live. And it claimed to be unkillable. Klinge decided that this was his final challenge. He would slay Bonegrinder. Or it would consume him. Klinge cracked his knuckles as he got to work writing out his plan. “Oh he may try.”

#New Crossover #ridersoftheapocalypse #Klinge #ralnor #Miranda #Bonegrinder #Monsters #Legend of Zelda #For #figmentforms #s-kinnaly #More to come.

[alexturner]

Woooow how did you get this URL ????

I’ve gotten this ask quite a lot the past fewweeks, so maybe it’s finally time I tell you all the real story…

It was a quiet Wednesday evening in November of 2017. I was home alone,preparing some things I had to do at my internship the day after. I was sittingat the kitchen table, typing away on my laptop, when suddenly I heard a knockon the front door.

Again, I was home alone, so I was cautious. I checked through the windowbefore opening the door. Once I did, there was no one there. I glanced around,but there was no once in sight except for a man across the street, walking hisdog. Looking down, I noticed a shiny, gold coloured envelope on my doorstep.Curious about its content, I picked it up, taking it with me as I went inside.

Door closed and safely locked behind me, I headed for the kitchen whereI had more light. Once there, I noticed the envelope had my name on it.

No address, nostamp, just, ‘Daniëla’

Now I was extra curious. I checked the golden surface further, but therewas no return address. No indication who sent me this, except for a wax seal onthe back, sealing the envelope shut. The sign stamped in the wax was one Ididn’t recognize. I felt the envelope out, try to guess what could be inside.It didn’t take me long to figure out it was probably a card of some sorts;rectangle shape, bit thicker than you’d expect a letter to be…

Before I knew it curiosity has gotten the best of me, as it often doeswith me, and I had ripped the envelope open.

The card insidewasn’t bigger than an average index card. I’m not allowed to go into thespecifics, but it was almost like an invitation, in a cursive handwriting. Itsaid I was specially selected, inquired if I would ‘Dare to take a risk?’ infancy lettering. The dot of the question mark was slightly smudged, and it reminded me almost of a wink. The card saidwhere I was expected, and when. The address and date were written in the middleof the card, below the big question. It wasn’t lost on me the risk-taking wouldtake place tomorrow, and that I’d be welcome from 19:00. But, it didn’tsay who had sent me the card.

By this time, I was laughing. Thinking this is some sort of prank, orlike, real life erotic spam. Second Love, dare to take a risk? type of stuff, that if you got an email aboutit, you’d click ‘delete’ and go on with your day.

“‘Dare to take a risk?’” I scoffed.

I put the card back in its envelope, and stuck it in my backpack that Iput by the kitchen table.

It took me about an hour before I finished my leftover work, after whichI decided to head to bed early so I would be well rested the next day. Thewhole time, I hadn’t been thinking about the invitation, but it was when I wasin bed that I started thinking about it again. Even when I willed myself tosleep, distracted myself by watching some TV, or with some apps on my phone, mymind wouldn’t drift from the card in my bag. It’s like I couldn’t get any restuntil I looked at it again. “Dare to take a risk?” Wouldn’t leave my brain.

Couldn’t hurt tolook up the location, I reasonedwith myself.

Before I knew it I got out of bed and pulled the golden paper from mybag, taking the card that was inside. I sat back on my bed, and looked up theaddress scribbled in the middle of the card, finding the location was a twohour drive from my house…. but only 35 minutes from my internship.

I could…dare totake a risk…

I remember that themoment I began considering actually going to this meet up, sleep began to cometo me, like I expected. Like clockwork. Ithought it was rather peculiar, but decided to stick the card back in mybackpack, and take advantage of the moment to sleep.

The following day I went to my internship as usual. Went to the schoolmeeting I prepared for the previous day, got a compliment from my internshipmentor. The day went by quickly, and the closer it came to an end, the closer itcame to me deciding if I was going to accept the invitation.

In the morning, it was a ‘No’. An undebatable no. The cons faroutweighed the pros, I had reasoned, and there was no way I was going to thismystery… whatever this was gonna be. This started to sound less like a risk,and more and more like a way to tragically end up on the national news.

But as I said, often, curiosity gets the best of me.

By the time the evening came around, and my day at my internship wasofficially over, my decision has swayed to 'Yes’. I still cannot tell you why,but the question had taken my interest in such a way that I found myself in mycar, following the navigation to the address on the card.

Like the navigation had indicated, 35 minutes later I found myself at mydestination. The building reminded me of the Hawkins National Laboratory, fromStranger Things, and that gave me the creeps. In that moment it was like Isnapped out of it and wondered what the hell I was even doing. But that briefmoment of doubt was cut off when suddenly someone knocked on my carwindow. 

Outside, next to my car, stood a young woman. She motioned for me toroll my window down, so I did.

“Daniëla?”

What the fuck? Sheknows my name?

Still,I rummaged around in my backpack and held up my golden envelope with a nod.

“Marvelous!” She exclaimed. “Come with me.”

For a little moment, I did think about justputting the car in reverse and driving far away from the creepy building andthe strange woman. Yet… as ridiculous as I deemed myself to be, I had to seethis through, so I went with her.

I know she introduced herself, I’m sure shedid. But I can’t remember her name now, or how we got from the car, to thebuilding, to a room that was like the waiting room at a dentist. She led me tothe door at the very end of the ‘waiting room’ and told me this is where shewas told to lead me, before congratulating me on taking a risk. Then, shewalked away.

My hand was reaching for the door handle, butit was shaking with anticipation of what could be behind it. All the plotlinesof movies I’ve seen and books I’ve read rushed through my mind, and by the timeI pushed the door open I was sure I was going to be murdered within now and afew minutes.

Slowly, the door swung open after I had givenit a little push, my heart nearly beating out of my chest. The room wascompletely white, with a white table and a white laptop standing open on it. Ontop of the keyboard was another golden envelope with my name on it.

After inspecting the room and making sure noone was inside, I opened the envelope. There was another handwritten cardinside. Whoever had written me, wrote about their knowledge of my Tumblr blog,and my desire to own a certain URL. And as a reward for taking a risk, I wouldbe offered the URL that I most desired.

Stunned, I looked at the computer screen,where my blog was open, but with a new URL.

“That’s it?!”

So yeah, that’s how I really got this url… 

#guys no need to send me this question anymore #this is what really happened #that's how i really got this url #anonymous #answers

[kinghenrymontague-blog]

the three signs of tragedy.

self para.

THE FIRST SIGN COMES AT SUNRISE, as a frightened and pale guard enters Henry’s room just after he had returned from his shift. It is nothing strange for a new bearer to come so early, but the fact that he does not knock ( and looks as though he may pass out at the slightest touch ) is the part that makes up the sign.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” Henry asks, a slight smile playing on his lips; something that the guard simply stares at, nearly in bewilderment.

“News for you, your majesty.” The guard’s voice is shaky, as though he’s just stepped out of an icy pool of cold water. His arm extends with more shakiness, and his fingers are white around the yellow parchment.

Henry is only slightly worried. The man ( boy? he is rather young, after all, which may be why he’s so afraid ) is undoubtedly ill, which sends a small shiver down the king’s spine. The last thing anyone needs is another sickness, no unlike the plague that had quite literally plagued all of Zenan a few months before.

“Thank you. You may go,” Henry says, taking the parchment without looking away from the guard’s pale face. “And by the Gods, see a healer.”

The guard’s eyes widen, and his mouth is agape slightly as if he wants to say something, but would never dare. Without a single word or sound, the guard turns on his heal and leaves the king’s chambers with a flurry of blue and white.

Taking a moment to finish dressing, Henry blindly places the parchment on the table by the window with a sigh. It is only when the chill sets in a few moments later that he realizes how uncharacteristically cold it is in his chambers --- and, glancing behind him at the barren fireplace, he notices why. The maids hadn’t come in during the early hours of the morning as they always did to light the fires and make up his bed, which is even more evident as Henry glances around at the unmade bed. What in the Gods’ name was going on?

Playing it down as a simple sickness going through the staff of the castle ( which wasn’t at all uncommon, especially during the coldest times in Norden ), the king dresses himself in the ceremonial armor and heavy, blue and white cloak that was custom during such a day. Henry was going to address the court, as he does at least twice a month, and discuss everything from taxes to knighthoods to farmers’ brawls. It is a time in which he feels most connected with his people, and he always looks forward to it.

Once dressed ( glittering crown resting heavy on his head ), Henry walks to the door and nearly reaches to open it. He stops, however, when he realizes the letter is still sitting by his window, and sighs heavily. Walking over to the table and retrieving the parchment, he plans on taking it with him and reading it on the way to the dining hall. But something about the yellow letter in his hand stops him.

It is folded without a care, and it’s wrinkled --- having been handled roughly ( or with shaking hands? ) for its entire trip. The most notable thing about the letter, however, is the seal atop the front. The wax stamp, which is a sparkling color of teal blue, is smeared; for it had been stamped with such haste that it could barely be recognized as the royal crest of Bearoria.

That is the second sign.

His heart is now racing, his mind not far behind; what could be inside such a foreboding letter? What could possibly be horrible enough to cause the letter to be sent so quickly and with such haste, and make the guard who delivered it as pale as he was? With long-fingered, cold hands, Henry all but rips open the letter, causing the Bearorian seal to fall to the ground with little grace.

The first few lines are a blur of formalities, as the writer ( whose hand is a messy scribble attempting to be formal ) quickly jots down the king of Norden’s titles in a form of greeting. Henry skips past all of that, hoping to find the meaning of the letter.

The words “I am sorry to announce” catch Henry’s gaze, but he thinks nothing of it --- it is something people say at the smallest of disagreements when speaking to a king, and it does not worry him overmuch.

But that was the third and final sign.

The words “King” and “Bearoria” cause Henry’s racing heart to stop in his heaving chest. His eyes freeze on the name Nathaniel, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the letter tightens exponentially. His gaze quickly turns back to the top of the letter, and only then do all the signs come together to create one horrifying image.

“I am sorry to announce that His Majesty, King Nathaniel Winnell of Bearoria, has been proclaimed dead by the hands of Ironhaven’s forces as his kingdom was invaded. Details of the tragedy at this time are few…”

The letter falling to the ground makes no noise. It floats, like a bird’s wings, until it swiftly graces the stone ground like a silent omen. It lands directly next to the discarded seal of Bearoria, and the site of the small piece of wax catches Henry’s eye and takes him out of his empty trance.

T r a g e d y. 

That’s the word that the author of the letter uses to describe what has happened.

A fucking tragedy.

No. No, that’s not what this is --- for a tragedy is war. A tragedy is pirates killing your people in front of you without a second thought, it’s the blood on your hands after a battle is lost. A tragedy is being tortured to your last breath, it’s a plague ravaging through the kingdoms of your homeland until people fear even leaving their homes. A tragedy is losing the mother of your children, and watching her leave the world of the living with painful sobs as you have to leave her side as the clock strikes the time of dusk.

But a tragedy --- though tragic and long-lasting --- does not promise to fill your life with a blackness like death itself until the lucky day that you die. A tragedy doesn’t feel like this, Henry thinks. It doesn’t feel like the very heart in his chest is being ripped from the protection of his ribs, like his brain is melting in his skull at the very thought of living without the one man he loved more than anything else in the world. It doesn’t manifest in the cold longing for death.

A few moments pass, and Henry doesn’t realize what’s happened around him. His mind and body are covered in an imaginary soot, blocking any clear thinking that might have made it through his shock. Still, he somehow manages to open his eyes when a pain in his palm makes it through jumbled thoughts.

The table that once held the letter now lays in splintered pieces on the ground, and the vase that had decorated it was shattered into a million little pieces. It was the vase, Henry thinks blandly, that had cut the skin on his palm. It wasn’t uncommon to still have these outbursts so close to dawn, when the wolf is not yet asleep inside of him, to still have the strength of the beast in his bones. Henry looked down at the blood seeping out of the deep gash on his hand, and the feeling of the warm, thick liquid dripping off of his skin bring him harshly back to reality.

The tears come first. The sobs wrack his body violently, and his bloody hand comes to cover his mouth subconsciously. The taste of metal comes soon after, as the blood smears over his face when his hands touch his skin as if to remind him he is real.

The sound of Henry’s gut-wrenching screams ( “NATHANIEL, NO, NOT NATE!” ) are heard as far as three wings over. His knees hit the ground with a crash, the splinters of wood and glass crunching under his weight. One of his hands falls to the ground to steady himself, and the other clutches the armor of his chest. The pain in his heart is enough to swiftly make him wish he were dead.

But he cannot die. Not yet.

While there is more appeal in being dead and seeing Nate again, than being alive and to live without him, Henry’s mind circles around one thing, and one thing only --- it is the 

“I will kill you,” the king of Norden sobs, his throat crackling with tears and pain alike. “I swear to the gods, Octavius Blackhart, your flesh will taste the metal of my sword, and you will die upon it.” His sobs come quicker now, but his next words are clear enough. “I swear upon my lover’s grave that I will not leave this world until I damn your wretched soul to the depths of hell.”

#:) #self-para

[lesbianrewrites]

Sorcerer’s Stone Chapter 03

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

This is a Lesbian edit of Harry Potter by J.K Rowling.

Chapters will be posted every other day around 9-10pm EST.

Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

The Letters From No One

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Hayley her longest-ever punishment. By the time she was allowed out of her cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

Hayley was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley’s gang, who visited the house every single day. Petra, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley’s favorite sport: Hayley Hunting.

This was why Hayley spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where she could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came she would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in her life, she wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings. Petra Polkiss was going there too. Hayley, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny.

“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,” he told Hayley. “Want to come upstairs and practice?”

“No, thanks,” said Hayley. “The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it — it might be sick.” Then she ran, before Dudley could work out what she’d said.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Hayley at Mrs. Figg’s. Mrs. Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Hayley watch television and gave her a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Hayley didn’t trust herself to speak. She thought two of her ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

*   *   *

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Hayley went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. She went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

“What’s this?” she asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if Hayley dared to ask a question.

“Your new school uniform,” she said.

Hayley looked in the bowl again.

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet.”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old things gray for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’ve finished.”

Hayley seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. She sat down at the table and tried not to think about how she was going to look on her first day at Stonewall High — like she was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Hayley’s new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

“Make Hayley get it.”

“Get the mail, Hayley.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke her with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Hayley dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and — a letter for Hayley.

Hayley picked it up and stared at it, her heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in her whole life, had written to her. Who would? She had no friends, no other relatives — she didn’t belong to the library, so she’d never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Ms. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, her hand trembling, Hayley saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

“Hurry up, girl!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Hayley went back to the kitchen, still staring at her letter. She handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk …”

“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Hayley’s got something!”

Hayley was on the point of unfolding her letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of her hand by Uncle Vernon.

“That’s mine!” said Hayley, trying to snatch it back.

“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Hayley and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.

“I want to read it,” said Hayley furiously, “as it’s mine.”

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Hayley didn’t move.

“I WANT MY LETTER!” she shouted.

“Let me see it!” demanded Dudley.

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Hayley and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Hayley and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Hayley, her glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on her stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, “look at the address — how could they possibly know where she sleeps? You don’t think they’re watching the house?”

“Watching — spying — might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want —”

Hayley could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer. … Yes, that’s best … we won’t do anything. …”

“But —”

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took her in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Hayley in her cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” said Hayley, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s writing to me?”

“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.”

“It was not a mistake,” said Hayley angrily, “it had my cupboard on it.”

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

“Er — yes, Hayley — about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking … you’re really getting a bit big for it … we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“Why?” said Hayley.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.”

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. It only took Hayley one trip upstairs to move everything she owned from the cupboard to this room. She sat down on the bed and stared around her. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s foot; in the corner was Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they’d never been touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, “I don’t want her in there … I need that room … make her get out. …”

Hayley sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday she’d have given anything to be up here. Today she’d rather be back in her cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He’d screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his newest game system through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn’t have his room back. Hayley was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing she’d opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Hayley, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, “There’s another one! ‘Ms. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive —’ ”

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Hayley right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Hayley had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Hayley’s letter clutched in his hand.

“Go to your cupboard — I mean, your bedroom,” he wheezed at Hayley. “Dudley — go — just go.”

Hayley walked round and round her new room. Someone knew she had moved out of her cupboard and they seemed to know she hadn’t received her first letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this time she’d make sure they didn’t fail. She had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next morning. Hayley turned it off quickly and dressed silently She mustn’t wake the Dursleys. She stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

She was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. Her heart hammered as she crept across the dark hall toward the front door —

“AAAAARRRGH!”

Hayley leapt into the air; she’d trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat — something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to her horror Hayley realized that the big, squashy something had been her uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Hayley didn’t do exactly what she’d been trying to do. She shouted at Hayley for about half an hour and then told her to go and make a cup of tea. Hayley shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time she got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon’s lap. Hayley could see three letters addressed in green ink.

“I want —” she began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before her eyes.

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if they can’t deliver them they’ll just give up.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”

“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Hayley. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Hayley found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

“Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?” Dudley asked Hayley in amazement.

*   *   *

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no damn letters today —”

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Hayley leapt into the air trying to catch one —

“Out! OUT!”

Uncle Vernon seized Hayley around the waist and threw her into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ’em off … shake ’em off,” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling. He’d never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Hayley shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Hayley stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering. …

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“ ’Scuse me, but is one of you Ms. H. Potter? Only I got about an ’undred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Ms. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Hayley made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked her hand out of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.

*   *   *

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television.”

Monday. This reminded Hayley of something. If it was Monday — and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television — then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Hayley’s eleventh birthday. Of course, her birthdays were never exactly fun — last year, the Dursleys had given her a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone out!”

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!”

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Hayley privately agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer her up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Hayley was left to find the softest bit of floor she could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Hayley couldn’t sleep. She shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, her stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Hayley she’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. She lay and watched her birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Hayley heard something creak outside. She hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in, although she might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that she’d be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and she’d be eleven. Thirty seconds … twenty … ten … nine — maybe she’d wake Dudley up, just to annoy him — three … two … one …

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Hayley sat bolt upright, long hair whipping out in front of her face as she stared at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

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Harry potter Chapter 3 Book 1

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley’s gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley’s favorite sport: Harry Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny.

“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,” he told Harry. “Want to come upstairs and practice?”

“No, thanks,” said Harry. “The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it — it might be sick. ” Then he ran, before Dudley could work out what he’d said.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg’s. Mrs. Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings’ boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

“What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.

“Your new school uniform,” she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet. ”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old things gray for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’ve finished. ”

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High — like he was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry’s new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

“Make Harry get it. ”

“Get the mail, Harry. ”

“Make Dudley get it. ”

“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley. ”

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and — a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk. . . ”

“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Harry’s got something!”

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon.

“That’s mine!” said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.

“I want to read it,” said Harry furiously, “as it’s mine. ”

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn’t move.

“I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted.

“Let me see it!” demanded Dudley.

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, “look at the address — how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don’t think they’re watching the house?”

“Watching — spying — might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want–”

Harry could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer. . . Yes, that’s best. . . we won’t do anything. . . ”

“But–”

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took him in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s writing to me?”

“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it. ”

“It was not a mistake,” said Harry angrily, “it had my cupboard on it. ”

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

“Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking. . . you’re really getting a bit big for it. . . we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.

“Why?” said Harry.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now. ”

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s dog; in the corner was Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they’d never been touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I don’t want him in there. . . I need that room. . . make him get out. . . ”

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he’d have given anything to be up here. Today he’d rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He’d screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn’t have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he’d opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, “There’s another one! ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive — ‘”

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry’s letter clutched in his hand.

“Go to your cupboard — I mean, your bedroom,” he wheezed at Harry. “Dudley — go — just go. ”

Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn’t received his first letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this time he’d make sure they didn’t fail. He had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn’t wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door —

“AAAAARRRGH!”

Harry leapt into the air; he’d trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat — something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn’t do exactly what he’d been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon’s lap. Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.

“I want — ” he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes.

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if they can’t deliver them they’ll just give up. ”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon. ”

“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

“Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?” Dudley asked Harry in amazement.

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no damn letters today–”

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one —

“Out! OUT!”

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ’em off. . . shake ’em off,” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling. He’d never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering. . .

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“‘Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an ‘undred of these at the front desk. ”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television. ”

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday — and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of television — then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun — last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone out!”

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!”

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn’t sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he’d be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds. . . twenty. . . ten. . . nine — maybe he’d wake Dudley up, just to annoy him — three. . . two. . . one. . .

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

#Never to old

[thatjenperson-blog]

Harriet Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone: Chapter 3

I don’t own the series. J.K. Rowling does. Any mistakes you find, let me know! You can email me for a copy at [email protected]. The fourth chapter is to be released this weekend, so be sure to check in! Find me on Deviant And Instagram, too! I hope you enjoy this project! And now, without further ado, here’s the third chapter of Harriet Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone!

CHAPTER THREE

THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harriet her longest-ever punishment. By the time she was allowed out of her cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and e had already broken her new video camera, crashed her remote control airplane, and, first time out on her racing bike, knocked down old Mr. Figg as he crossed Privet Drive on his crutches.

Harriet was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudlie's gang, who visited the house every single day. Pia, Dennice, Macey, and Gracelin were all big and stupid, but as Dudlie was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, she was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudlie's favorite sport: Harriet Hunting.

This was why Harriet spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where she could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came she would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in her life, she wouldn't be with Dudlie. Dudlie had been accepted at Aunt Verna's old private school, Smeltings. Pia Polkiss was going there too. Harriet, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudlie thought this was very funny.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," she told Harriet. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"No, thanks," said Harriet. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick." Then she ran, before Dudlie could work out what she'd said.

One day in July, Uncle Petune took Dudlie to London to buy her Smeltings uniform, leaving Harriet at Mr. Figg's. Mr. Figg wasn't as bad as usual. It turned out he'd broken his leg tripping over one of his cats, and he didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. He let Harriet watch television and gave her a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though he'd had it for several years.

That evening, Dudlie paraded around the living room for the family in her brand-new uniform. Smeltings' girls wore maroon dresses, orange leggings, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As she looked at Dudlie in her new leggings, Aunt Verna said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of her life. Uncle Petune burst into tears and said he couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudliekins, she looked so beautiful and grown-up. Harriet didn't trust herself to speak. She thought two of her ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harriet went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. She went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

"What's this?" she asked Uncle Petune. His lips tightened as they always did if she dared to ask a question.

"Your new school uniform," he said.

Harriet looked in the bowl again.

"Oh," she said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"Don’t be stupid," snapped Uncle Petune. "I'm dyeing some of Dudlie's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."

Harriet seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. She sat down at the table and tried not to think about how she was going to look on her first day at Stonewall High -- like she was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.

Dudlie and Aunt Verna came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harriet's new uniform. Aunt Verna opened her newspaper as usual and Dudlie banged her Smelting stick, which she carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat. "Get the mail, Dudlie," said Aunt Verna from behind her paper. "Make Harriet get it." "Get the mail, Harriet." "Make Dudlie get it." "Poke her with your Smelting stick, Dudlie." Harriet dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Aunt Verna's brother Mart, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and -- a letter for Harriet.

Harriet picked it up and stared at it, her heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in her whole life, had written to her. Who would? She had no friends, no other relatives -- she didn't belong to the library, so she'd never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Ms. H. Potter The Cupboard under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey. The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, her hand trembling, Harriet saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

"Hurry up, girl!" shouted Aunt Verna from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" She chuckled at her own joke.

Harriet went back to the kitchen, still staring at her letter. She handed Aunt Verna the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope.

Aunt Verna ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

"Mart's ill," she informed Uncle Petune. "Ate a funny whelk. --."

"Mom!" said Dudlie suddenly. "Mom, Harriet's got something!"

Harriet was on the point of unfolding her letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of her hand by Aunt Verna.

"That's mine!" said Harriet, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Aunt Verna, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. Her face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

"P-P-Petune!" she gasped.

Dudlie tried to grab the letter to read it, but Aunt Verna held it high out of her reach. Uncle Petune took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though he might faint. He clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Verna! Oh my goodness -- Verna!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harriet and Dudlie were still in the room. Dudlie wasn't used to being ignored. She gave her mother a sharp tap on the head with her Smelting stick.

"I want to read that letter," she said loudly.

“I want to read it," said Harriet furiously, "as it's mine."

"Get out, both of you," croaked Aunt Verna, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harriet didn't move.

I WANT MY LETTER!" she shouted.

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudlie.

"OUT!" roared Aunt Verna, and she took both Harriet and Dudlie by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harriet and Dudlie promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudlie won, so Harriet, her glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on her stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

"Verna," Uncle Petune was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address -- how could they possibly know where she sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?"

"Watching -- spying -- might be following us," muttered Aunt Verna wildly.

"But what should we do, Verna? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want --"

Harriet could see Aunt Verna's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

"No," she said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything....

"But --"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petune! Didn't we swear when we took her in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"

That evening when she got back from work, Aunt Verna did something she'd never done before; she visited Harriet in her cupboard.

"Where's my letter?" said Harriet, the moment Aunt Verna had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"

"No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Aunt Verna shortly. "I have burned it."

"It was not a mistake," said Harriet angrily, "it had my cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" yelled Aunt Verna, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. She took a few deep breaths and then forced her face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

"Er -- yes, Harriet -- about this cupboard. Your uncle and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudlie's second bedroom.

"Why?" said Harriet.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped her aunt. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Aunt Verna and Uncle Petune, one for visitors (usually Aunt Verna's brother, Marge), one where Dudlie slept, and one where Dudlie kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into her first bedroom. It only took Harriet one trip upstairs to move everything she owned from the cupboard to this room. She sat down on the bed and stared around her. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudlie had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudlie's first-ever television set, which she'd put her foot through when her favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudlie had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudlie had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudlie bawling at her father, I don't want her in there... I need that room... make her get out...."

Harriet sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday she'd have given anything to be up here. Today she'd rather be back in her cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudlie was in shock. She'd screamed, whacked her mother with her Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked her father, and thrown her tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and she still didn't have her room back. Harriet was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing she'd opened the letter in the hall. Aunt Verna and Uncle Petune kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Aunt Verna, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harriet, made Dudlie go and get it. They heard her banging things with her Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then she shouted, "There's another one! 'Ms. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive --'"

With a strangled cry, Aunt Verna leapt from her seat and ran down the hall, Harriet right behind her. Aunt Verna had to wrestle Dudlie to the ground to get the letter from her, which was made difficult by the fact that Harriet had grabbed Aunt Verna around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Aunt Verna straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harriet's letter clutched in her hand.

"Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," she wheezed at Harriet. "Dudlie -- go -- just go."

Harriet walked round and round her new room. Someone knew she had moved out of her cupboard and they seemed to know she hadn't received her first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time she'd make sure they didn't fail. She had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harriet turned it off quickly and dressed silently. She mustn't wake the Dursleys. She stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

She was going to wait for the postwoman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. Her heart hammered as she crept across the dark hall toward the front door -

Harriet leapt into the air; she'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat -- something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to her horror Harriet realized that the big, squashy something had been her aunt's face. Aunt Verna had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harriet didn't do exactly what she'd been trying to do. She shouted at Harriet for about half an hour and then told her to go and make a cup of tea. Harriet shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time she got back, the mail had arrived, right into Aunt Verna's lap.

Harriet could see three letters addressed in green ink.

I want --" she began, but Aunt Verna was tearing the letters into pieces before her eyes. Aunt Verna didn’t go to work that day. She stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

"See," she explained to Uncle Petune through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work, Verna."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petune, they're not like you and me," said Aunt Verna, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Uncle Petune had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harriet. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

Aunt Verna stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, she got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. She hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as she worked, and jumped at small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harriet found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Uncle Petune through the living room window. While Aunt Verna made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Uncle Petune shredded the letters in his food processor.

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudlie asked Harriet in amazement.

On Sunday morning, Aunt Verna sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

"No post on Sundays," she reminded them cheerfully as she spread marmalade on her newspapers, "no damn letters today --"

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as she spoke and caught her sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harriet leapt into the air trying to catch one.

"Out! OUT!"

Aunt Verna seized Harriet around the waist and threw her into the hall. When Uncle Petune and Dudlie had run out with their arms over their faces, Aunt Verna slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

"That does it," said Aunt Verna, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of her hair at the same time. I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"

She looked so dangerous with part of her hair missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudlie was sniffling in the back seat; her mother had hit her round the head for holding them up while she tried to pack her television, VCR, and computer in her sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Uncle Petune didn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Aunt Verna would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake 'em off... shake 'em off," she would mutter whenever she did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudlie was howling. She'd never had such a bad day in her life. She was hungry, she'd missed five television programs she'd wanted to see, and she'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on her computer.

Aunt Verna stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudlie and Harriet shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudlie snored but Harriet stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering....

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Ms. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk."

He held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Ms. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harriet made a grab for the letter but Aunt Verna knocked her hand out of the way. The man stared.

"I'll take them," said Aunt Verna, standing up quickly and following him from the dining room.

Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Uncle Petune suggested timidly, hours later, but Aunt Verna didn't seem to hear him. Exactly what she was looking for, none of them knew. She drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook her head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

"Mommy's gone mad, hasn't she?" Dudlie asked Uncle Petune dully late that afternoon. Aunt Verna had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudlie sniveled.

"It's Monday," she told her father. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television. "

Monday. This reminded Harriet of something. If it was Monday -- and you could usually count on Dudlie to know the days the week, because of television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harriet's eleventh birthday. Of course, her birthdays were never exactly fun -- last year, the Dursleys had given her a coat hanger and a pair of Aunt Verna's old socks. Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Aunt Verna was back and she was smiling. She was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer Uncle Petune when he asked what she'd bought.

"Found the perfect place!" she said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

It was very cold outside the car. Aunt Verna was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Aunt Verna gleefully, clapping her hands together. "And this lady's kindly agreed to lend us her boat!"

A toothless old woman came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

"I've already got us some rations" said Aunt Verna, "so all aboard!"

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Aunt Verna, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Aunt Verna's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. She tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" she said cheerfully.

She was in a very good mood. Obviously she thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harriet privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer her up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Uncle Petune found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudlie on the moth-eaten sofa. He and Aunt Verna went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harriet was left to find the softest bit of floor she could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harriet couldn't sleep. She shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, her stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudlie's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudlie’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on her fat wrist, told Harriet she'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. She lay and watched her birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harriet heard something creak outside. She hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although she might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that she'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and she'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten... nine -- maybe she'd wake Dudlie up, just to annoy her -- three... two... one...

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harriet sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

#harry potter #rule 63 #jk rowling #harriet potter #dudley dursley #petunia dursley #vernon dursley #genderbend #sorcerersstone #scholastic #magic #wizardry #going mad #mail #roadtrip #birthday #extreme measures

[readbookywooks]

THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.　　

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry Hunting.　　

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny.　　

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"　　

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick." Then he ran, before Dudley could work out what he'd said.　　

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn 't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years.　　

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.　　

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.　　

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.　　

"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.　　

"Your new school uniform," she said.　　

Harry looked in the bowl again.　　

"Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."　　

"DotA be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."　　Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High -- like he was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.　　Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.　　

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.　　

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.　　

"Make Harry get it."　　

"Get the mail, Harry."　　

"Make Dudley get it."　　

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."　　

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and -- a letter for Harry.　　

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives -- he didn't belong to the library, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:　　

Mr. H. Potter　　

The Cupboard under the Stairs　　

4 Privet Drive　　

Little Whinging　　 

Surrey　　

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.　　

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.　　

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.　　

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope.　　

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.　　

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk. --."　　

"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"　　

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon.　　

"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.　　

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.　　

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.　　

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.　　

"Vernon! Oh my goodness -- Vernon!"　　

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.　　

"I want to read that letter," he said loudly. want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."　　

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.　　

Harry didn't move.　　

I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted.　　

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.　　

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.　　

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address -- how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?"　　

"Watching -- spying -- might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.　　

"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want --"　　

Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.　　

"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything....　　

"But --"　　

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"　　

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.　　

"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"　　

"No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle Vernon shortly. "I have burned it."　　

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard on it."　　

"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.　　

"Er -- yes, Harry -- about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom.　　

"Why?" said Harry.　　

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."　

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched.　　

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I don't want him in there... I need that room... make him get out...."　　

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it.　　

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.　　

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive --'"　　

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand.　　

"Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry. "Dudley -- go -- just go."　　

Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan.　　

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.　　

He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door --　　

Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat -- something alive!　

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.　　

I want --" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.　　

"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."　　

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."　　

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.　　

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.　　

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked, and jumped at small noises.　　

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.　　

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry in amazement.　　

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.　　

"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today --"　　

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.　　

"Out! OUT!"　　Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.　　

"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"　　

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.　　They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this.　　

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.　　

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering....　　

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.　　

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk."　　

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:　　

Mr. H. Potter　　

Room 17　　

Railview Hotel　　

Cokeworth　　

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared.　　

"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.　　

Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.　　

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.　　

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud ley sniveled.　　

"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television. "　　

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday -- and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. Still, you weren't eleven every day.　　

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd bought.　　

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"　　

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.　　

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!"　　

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.　　

"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"　　

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.　　

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.　　

Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.　　

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully.　　

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.　　

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.　　

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.　　

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.　　

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?　　

One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten... nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him -- three... two... one...　　BOOM.　　

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

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