The Boy Who Lived

Breaking Mr Lawrence’s greenhouse earned him his longest-ever punishment. Harry really hoped Mr Lawrence didn't hate him now. His heart sank every time he thought about it. By the time Harry was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new camera, crashed his remote control aeroplane and, first time 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 favourite sport: Harry Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible in the garden or wandering around when he had done all of the chores. Thinking about the end of the summer holidays was like looking at 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 a place at Uncle Vernon’s old school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local comprehensive. Dudley thought this was very funny.

“They stuff peoples heads down the toilet first day at Stonewall,” he told Harry. “Want to come upstairs and practise?”

“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 with Mr Lawrence - who had insisted he didn't mind. Mrs Figg after all was on bed rest after Dudley’s near miss.

Harry was incredibly relieved when Mr Lawrence assured him he wasnt mad about the greenhouse incident. He pointed it out and Harry noticed that everything was back in working order and the glass had been replaced. Mr Lawrence looked worriedly over him as he ate some sandwiches and chocolate. Harry knew some of the bigger bruises were in full view after his punishment, but he was glad most of the extra baggy clothes covered them. 

Harry felt the most full he’d ever felt in his life while he spent the day at Mr Lawrence’s house. He caught sight of the room with the board again, but was gently led away from it. He could've sworn he saw one of the pictures move, but shrugged it off. They sat peacefully in the livingroom together while Mr Lawrence read his book, and Harry was handed his own book. It was titled “The Tales of Beedle the Bard.” Harry enjoyed it very much, though he didn't get very far in it before he fell asleep. It was the most well-rested Harry had felt in his life. The safest.

That evening, after Aunt Petunia had arrived to pick him up, and Mr Lawrence had slid him the copy of his book to finish, Dudley paraded around the living room in his new uniform. Smelting’s boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers and flat straw hats called boaters. Harry was relieved for another reason to not be going to that school. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposedly training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment in 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 was glad he’d been put on dinner duty, far enough for them to not hear his poor attempts at holding in his laugh. He distracted himself by stealing a few slices of the carrots he was chopping.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in to start making breakfast. He was glad he couldn't smell it from his cupboard. It seemed to be coming from a large plastic tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey 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 and grimaced. He hoped the smell would wash off.

“Does it need handwashing?”

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

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought best not to argue. Noticing that Aunt Petunia had already almost finished making breakfast, Harry quietly went and sat at the table. He tried not to think about how he would look on his first day at Stonewall High.

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 letter box and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the post, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon absentmindedly.

“Make Harry get it.”

“Get the post, Harry.”

Harry stood to get the post, narrowly avoiding a poke from Dudley’s stick.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was holidaying 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 take books out of the library so he’d never even gotten a note 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 some kind of fancy shield with 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 snapped out of it and walked back towards the kitchen, stopping by his cupboard first to slide the letter under his pillow. He quietly closed the door behind him. He continued to the kitchen and handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down and tried to act like nothing was out of the ordinary. In fact, he made it the whole day without arousing suspicion. But more and more he wished he could just run to his cupboard and open it. He felt guilty, like he’d done an unforgivable crime and every hour he wasn't found out his breathing felt more noticeable.

It wasn't until Dudley came running into the kitchen later that afternoon that Harry’s heart dropped.

“Dad! Dad! Harry was hiding something!” Dudley proudly held up the letter he had hidden. Harry baulked, nausea and dread rolling through his stomach.

“It says his name on it.”

Uncle Vernon snatched it from Dudley’s hand so suddenly even Dudley flinched.

“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, popping the wax seal off the letter and opening 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 greyish white of old porridge.

“Pe–” Uncle Vernon started, sounding as though he was going to throw up. “Petunia!”

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon pushed him away angrily and held it out of reach. Dudley dropped to the floor and Aunt Petunia rushed over immediately. She took the letter cautiously and read what couldn't have been more than the first line. For a moment it looked like she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my God – Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Harry was thankful, if it meant he wasn't being beaten for hiding it. Though he wasn't entirely sure what it was. Dudley, who wasn't used to being ignored, quickly recovered from the fall and yelled, “I want to read that letter.”

Harry didn't want to bring the attention back on himself enough to hold his tongue about wanting to read his own post himself.

“Get out, both of you!” croaked Uncle Vernon and Harry didn't need to be asked twice. He left and headed towards his cupboard. Back in the kitchen he heard Uncle Vernon roar “OUT!” when Dudley asked to read it again. Dudley was thrown into the hallway by the scruff of his neck. He landed on top of Harry, prompting them to have a short fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, went to his cupboard. The door was open, and everything was in order other than his pillow had been moved. Harry wondered if Dudley had been searching his cupboard for something in particular, and absently wondered if he’d done it before.

They needn't have fought over who could listen in because both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were still very audible.

“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–”

“No,” he said finally, after what sounded like him pacing. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they dont 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?”

Almost as though triggered by the words, letter after letter started springing from the letter-box. All of them looked the same as Harry’s from earlier, and on closer inspection, they were all addressed to him too.

Hearing the slamming of the letter-box, Uncle Vernon burst out of the kitchen and down the hall, shoving Harry out of the way. It took around half an hour for him to burn all of the letters and seal closed the letter-box.

Once it was done, he mumbled, “We’re taking a vacation. We’re going to go somewhere for a little while, just while we sort this out.” It sounded like it was meant for himself and not for them, but Dudley cheered regardless. It had been very easy for Harry to pack all of his belongings into the backpack that had been shoved his way. They rushed out the car that night, Dudley sniffling next to Harry after being hit round the head for trying to pack more than his clothes.

The holiday in question, ended up being a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big looking city. They’d driven for so long it was bright outside and Dudley was screaming about how hungry he was and the television shows he’d missed. After getting food, they returned to their rooms for the night. Dudley and Harry shared a bedroom with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. It had been the first proper bed Harry had ever slept on, except Dudley snored and Harry couldn't fall asleep. He sat on the window-sill, staring down at the lights of passing cars. He’d never been outside of their little neighbourhood before. He sat there almost the entire night, before Aunt Petunia slowly creaked open the door and stopped short when she noticed him. After ordering him to bed and double checking Dudley was still in his bed, she left. And Harry felt tired enough to listen.

They ate stale cornflakes and lukewarm beans on toast for breakfast the next day. The Dursley’s grumbled but Harry was internally overjoyed to be able to eat breakfast without having to be the one to make it. He felt like a celebrity. 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 where he was driving, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of the forest and Dudley looked a little pale. He was quiet for a change and it disturbed Harry greatly. Even if not even Aunt Petunia knew where he was going, at the very least Uncle Vernon seemed to know precisely and confidently where he was driving. Though perhaps instead he’d gone mad. Late into the afternoon, when Uncle Vernon had stepped out of the car to move a fairly sized branch out of the way of the road, Dudley found his voice. Much more quiet than usual he said, “It’s Monday,” he never once took his eyes off Uncle Vernon. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television.”

Monday. That reminded Harry of something as their conversation faded into the background. 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 Harry’s eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun – last year, the Dursley’s had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks; later in the evening, Dudley had brought Harry a small notebook and pen Harry knew he’d gotten as a freebie on the Smelting’s opening day. Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He resolutely ignored Aunt Petunia asking if they were staying at another hotel tonight and continued his drive. “We’re almost there.” Harry thought to himself that he would have rather Uncle Vernon said nothing at all with how he sounded just then.

They pulled up to what could barely be considered a clearing, but just enough for the car to come to a stop outside of an abandoned-looking stone hut. Both Aunt Petunia and Dudley at this point looked the same shade of pale. Harry couldn't blame them, it was far outside of what they were used to. 

Uncle Vernon grinned widely. “It’s due to storm tonight, and there's no way they’d be able to follow all the twists and turns. No one knows about this place. Yes, yes, perfect! Everyone inside.”

One thing was for certain, there was no working television in there.

The inside was horrible, but cleaner than he had expected. The ceiling was covered in cobwebs, which he didn't mind, but wind whistled through the gaps in the stones. The fireplace looked damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a packet of crisps each, four bananas, and a collection of tins that were hidden in a crate by the fireplace. The more Aunt Petunia looked around the paler she became, and Dudley sat on the sofa looking dazedly at the fireplace. Uncle Vernon tried to start a fire but the empty crisp packets just smoked and shrivelled up.

“Could do with some of those letter’s 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 post. 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 rain hit splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. The windows were covered in many old layers of newspaper on the inside so Harry couldn't see what it looked like outside at all. Aunt Petunia brought a few blankets out of the bedroom 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. An hour or so later, after the frantic unintelligible whispers of the Dursley’s stopped, Dudley shifted and asked him to sleep on the floor beside the sofa. Harry did so. Dudley draped more of his own blanket over the sofa for Harry to lay under. It wasn't much but it helped stave away the cold a bit more.

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 snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. He was surprised Dudley could even sleep on that sofa. The lighting dial of Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his wrist, told Harry he’d be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursley’s would remember at all, wondering where the letter-writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped a tree wasn't going to fall onto the roof. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house on 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. He wondered if maybe he did have another family member out there who finally wanted to come and steal Harry away. Two minutes to go. What was that funny crunching noise? He really, really hoped a tree wasn't going to fall on them.

One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten – nine – maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to remind someone – three – two – one –

BOOM.

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