The letters from no one
By the time Harry was told he was allowed out his cupboard, the summer holidays had begun; though nobody seemed to notice his presence in the corner of the living room almost everyday, just reading with Hydrus usually laid across his lap, or how he could easily walk himself to and from school. And Dudley hardly noticed as long as he got to bully Harry, and he didn't even get half a thought to say a thing. And he wasn't being very cooperative with very much-- Dudley had already broken his video camera, crashed his remote controlled plane, had gone for a number of rides on his bike, and knocked down poor Mrs Figg while she walked down Privet Drive and her crutches just a week into the holidays.
Harry was a little disappointed that school had ended, but he found himself enjoying it eventually, as long as he spent the entire day outside. Dudley's gang only bothered to chase him down until they passed the Video-game arcade, which Harry had always deliberately tried to run through. None of them-- not Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, or Gordon, all very big and very stupid, were able to beat him if it came to wits, especially not if Dudley couldn't. They were all quite fond of Harry Hunting, Dudley's favourite sport, but it seemed they'd forgotten how to play.
He spent as much time as he could outside the house, usually reading or studying; He would be going to secondary school when September began. And luckily, Dudley wouldn't be at the same school. He'd be at Smeltings, some stuck-up private school, and Piers would be going with him. Harry, however, would be at Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought it was hilarious.
"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," He said, but Harry obviously knew that was anything but true. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"
"Why do you need me to practice? The toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it before, it might get sick," And he ran, before Dudley could work out what he'd said. The voices said it'd be unlikely that happen soon, if at all, but he'd rather not take his chances. Much help the voices had ever really done for him, anyway.
Some day in July, Petunia took Dudley to get his uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs Figg's. To his surprise, it wasn't as bad as usual; She had been less fond of her cats now that one of them were at fault for her broken leg. She let him watch television, and offered him a bit of chocolate cake, though he denied it, saying he had a strict diet, and that he didn't like sweets anyway.
Of course, it was a lie-- he hadn't even eaten enough food daily to know if he needed a better diet, but he didn't want to be rude, and the cake looked unbelievably stale; He'd be open to having some, of course, but if it was from Mrs Figg, he'd pretend he hated sweets for all his life.
When Petunia and Dudley had arrived back home 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, which were for hitting eachother when the teachers' backs were turned. It was supposedly good training for later life.
Looking at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life; Petunia burst into tears and sobbed, saying she couldn't believe she was looking at her Ickle Duddykins, looking so handsome and grown-up. Had he not already been used to doing so, Harry wouldn't have trusted himself to speak, and he was certain that two of his ribs were on the rim of cracking from how hard he was trying to not laugh.
The next morning, the kitchen had a foul scent, and to Harry's surprise, it was not from some burnt attempt at breakfast that he would be blamed for. It was instead coming from a large tub in the sink, and when he went to take a look, he quickly put his hand over his nose. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water.
"What is this?" He asked, and it was only after he asked that he realised he'd even spoken. Petunia glowered at him and her lips tightened.
"Your new school uniform," she said. "It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."
Harry looked in the bowl again and grimaced. But this time, he had enough self-control to keep quiet. He sat down at the table and tried his best to not think about how he'd look his first day at Stonewall High-- probably as though he were wearing bits of old elephant skin.
Maybe he could get some sort of day job and get an actual uniform- there must be people somewhere that had some kind of work they could pay him for. Garden work? He wasn't too bad at that. He knew how to take care of beetles-- they were funniest when they were put to fight against each other, he learned, and then with other bugs, he could just bury them in soil or tear them apart. But he was straying away from what he should've been focused on-- how could he get money?
Dudley and Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses from the smell of Harry's new "uniform." Yet, nonetheless, the morning went on as normal-- Vernon opened his morning paper and Dudley hit almost everything with his Smelting stick. He'd been carrying it everywhere since he'd got it, and it seemed to be his new favourite tool to torture Harry with, slapping his knees with it as he walked and knocking on his head.
From the door, they heard the click of the mail slot and the flop of letters on the doormat.
"Dudley, go get the mail," Vernon said behind his newspaper.
"Make Harry get it."
"Harry, go get the mail,"
"Make Dudley get it." Harry blurted, still thinking on how he'd get money. And perhaps the smell of the uniform was so strong, because Vernon did not snap at him, but instead spoke the same as he had been, "Hit him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."
Harry narrowly avoided getting hit on the head with the stick and went to get the mail. Three letters laid on the doormat; A postcard from Marge, Vernon's sister, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and-- Harry blinked multiple times and even spat and wiped off his glasses to make sure he saw correctly-- a letter addressed to him.
His face flushed to the point it burned, and he must've looked like Vernon; He went from normal to red to sickly pale. Nobody had any reason to write him. He never got any letters from the library about overdue books, as he always had the sense to turn them in days early, and he was smart enough to make sure no one caught him stealing. He thought of the person always sending him birthday presents, but they were always at the foot of his bed. They'd never sent a letter, especially through the post, and it wasn't his birthday either. And yet even with all the obvious reasons that made this impossible, here it was, a letter addressed to him, so plainly it was unmistakable.
Ms. H. Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive - Little Whinging - Surrey
The envelope was thick and heavy, of a yellowish kind of paper that he once heard the librarian refer to as parchment, and it was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp, and no return address.
He blinked once, twice, a third time and turned the envelope over and back just to make sure he'd read right. How'd the sender know he slept in the cupboard?
"Hurry up, boy!" Vernon yelled from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" he chuckled at his own joke.
Harry had no time to think and ran to give up the other letters.
He watched intently as Vernon ripped open the bill and grunted, as if it were some rodent, and flipped over the postcard.
"Marge's ill," he informed Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk."
Harry's ear twitched as he tried his best not to laugh, busying himself with hiding the letter addressed to him, but he jumped, and it fell under the table when Dudley suddenly shouted--
"Dad! Dad, Harry's got something!"
The moment Harry got the letter off the floor, it was jerked out his hand by Vernon.
"That's mine!" Harry said, trying to reach for it.
"Who'd be writing you?" He ripped open the letter and glanced at it for a second. His face went from red much like Harry's when he first saw it. Except Harry's face did not go green, followed by the pale, greyish white that Vernon's did.
"Pe-P-Petunia!" he gasped.
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Vernon held it high out of his reach until Petunia separated with the tub to take it. She must've only read the first line, because she clutched her throat and made a choking noise, not even half a minute after having grabbed it, forcing it back into Vernon's hands and looking very pale.
"Vernon! Oh my- my goodness -- Vernon!"
They both fell silent, staring at eachother with obvious shock. It didn't surprise Harry that they were as shocked as he was, but they didn't have to keep it from him. It was addressed to him, after all.
"I want to read it!" Dudley screamed, slapping his father on the head with his Smelting stick. Vernon only held up the letter higher.
"Read it?" Harry repeated, "It's my letter! I am going to read it before you do! And- and give it here! Hydrus!"
The snake slithered from under Harry's shirt and up Vernon's arm; He handed it back off to Petunia, who rushed over to the kitchen. Before she knew what had happened, her foot got caught on the other, and the letter flew into the grey water, the green ink spilling around. Harry went to try and get it before it became unreadable, but Petunia got there before he; She shrieked as her fingertips now had a dull, greenish tint as she dropped her hands into the water, but she picked up the letter quickly and placed it in the highest cabinet she could.
"Give - me - my - letter!" Harry yelled, and Dudley jumped up and down beside him, yelling, "I want to read it, too!" and hitting everything in sight with his Smelting stick.
"Get out now, the two of you," Vernon croaked, holding his giant purple face. Harry didn't move, and Dudley continued to hit things with his stick.
"I WANT MY LETTER!" Harry screamed. Dudley paused and stared at him. Harry felt a pang of annoyance hit him. So now he'd been so terrible that even Dudley, of all people, was surprised. As if he wasn't allowed to be angry. He was a freak, by their standards, he knew that, but he wasn't totally inhuman.
"OUT!" Vernon yelled, and grabbed Harry and Dudley by their collars and threw them out.
"GIVE ME MY LETTER!" Harry banged on the door to the kitchen. Dudley pulled him back, and put his ear to the keyhole. Harry already knew it'd be a fruitless effort to try and move him-- he laid on his stomach and listened through the crack underneath the door.
"Vernon," Petunia was saying, her voice quivering, "look at the address! How could they possibly know where he sleeps?! You don't think they've been watching the house, do you?"
"Ruddy snake, almost bit me! Pft! Watching, spying, might be following us..." Vernon muttered wildly. His shiny black shoes were pacing up and down the kitchen.
"But what do we do? Do- do we-- do we write back? Tell them he's not--"
"No." He said firmly. "No, we'll, we'll ignore it. If they don't get any answer... yes, that's best.. we won't do... anything."
"But, Vernon--"
"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in that we'd stamp out that-- that nonsense?!"
Harry hadn't felt like listening anymore, and kicked the door before picking up Hydrus and stomping to his usual corner in the living room.
He placed Hydrus on his usual pillow, and only for about a minute could he contain his own rage. Before he knew what he was really doing, he was tossing around old books, and even the broken clock he used to use before Dudley "gave" him his old one. He had screamed, and yelled, and kicked the walls. He threw a tantrum almost like one of Dudley's. It wouldn't do anything-- that's what made it different, or whatever-- but it made him feel better. Things were broken and they weren't things he really needed to be intact. But something he did need-- that letter. And maybe he didn't know why, but he'd find some way to get it.
When Vernon arrived home from work that evening, he did something he'd never done before-- he visited Harry's little cupboard.
"Where's my letter?" Harry asked, the moment the door opened, his arms and legs crossed, and Hydrus was draped across his shoulders. His ears well burning and felt odd, but he ignored it. "Who's writing to me?"
"No one. It was addressed to you by mistake," said Vernon quickly.
"Mistake? It wasn't a mistake," muttered Harry. "It had my cupboard on it."
"QUIET, BOY!" Vernon yelled, and he grabbed Harry's arm as if preparing to hit him. But then, suddenly, he let go. He took a few deep breaths and forced his face into a smile that looked rather painful.
"Nevermind that letter... now, about this cupboard... your aunt and I have been thinking, you're getting a bit big for it... we think it'd be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom." Vernon offered. Although it sounded more like a demand than an offer.
"No," said Harry. "I don't care about the room. I want my letter."
Vernon and Petunia's conversation came back to him sooner than he could even recall opening his mouth and speaking.
"You don't want a what in the house? You know who's written me, and you don't want me to know. They'd take me, wouldn't they? You're always talking about how much you want me gone, this would be the perfect chance--"
The next thing he knew, Vernon's hand was raised and the right side of his face was stinging very painfully. Hydrus raised himself up and hissed threateningly, and Harry could've sworn he heard him speak, but he couldn't remember just what he had said. What he'd imagined he said. Snakes couldn't speak.
"I said forget the letter, boy! And don't ask questions! Now, move your stuff upstairs!" Vernon barked. Harry huffed, but knowing it wouldn't do anything, held the spot where Vernon slapped him and nodded.
The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Vernon and Petunia; One for visitors, usually 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 took Harry only one trip to move all his things upstairs-- he threw all his things inside his shabby, itchy blanket and tossed it down on the springy mattress in one corner of the room.
He stared around the room. Everything in it was broken, if not dusty and covered in spider webs. The month-old video camera laid on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbour's dog; In the corner was Dudley's first ever television set, including the cracked screen which he'd put his foot through when his favourite program was cancelled; There was a large bird cage in the opposite corner from where Harry stood, which once held a parrot that Dudley traded at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end very bent because Dudley had gotten too angry when he missed a shot he was firing at one of the morning birds. All of the shelves were full of books, and Harry groaned when he saw they were all old books of Dudley's, which he'd already read before.
He heard Dudley downstairs bawling his eyes out, "I don't want him in there... I need that room... make him get out..."
But Harry knew very well that he did not care one bit about the room; He just didn't want anyone other than himself to have it-- and the fact it was Harry did not make him feel any better about it. Harry sighed and fell back on the mattress, and Hydrus curled up beside his head.
He'd managed to get the letter out of the highest cabinet, but all the letters were smudged and it ripped around the sides. It looked as if something had been biting it before Harry got to it, but the Dursleys didn't allow rodents or insects in their house, and whenever there was anything, Hydrus found it before anyone else and helped himself. But to Harry, this whole thing was terribly ironic. Yesterday, he would've tossed himself off the roof just to have this room. He hated his cupboard almost as much as he hated his scar. But now, he wished he was back in his cupboard with the letter than in here without it.
Next morning, breakfast was silent. Dudley was evidently in shock-- he had cried, whined, wailed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, made himself sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, (which for him was an entire temper tantrum) but Harry still had his second room. Harry, meanwhile, was still swearing at himself for not thinking faster and stuffing the letter into his cupboard or under his shirt. Vernon and Petunia kept sharing very dark looks.
To Harry's surprise, the morning could get even weirder-- the Dursleys, or atleast Petunia and Vernon, had been being nice to him. Petunia hadn't made him cook breakfast or made him do this or that for Dudley, and Vernon told Dudley to get the mail. However, Harry jumped up and tried to get it himself. They fought all the way down the hall, and Harry could practically see the ink shining--
Ms. H. Potter
The Smallest Bedroom
4 Privet Drive - Little Whinging - Surrey
But before he could grab it, he was dragged backwards by the foot by Dudley. "I want to read it first!"
"NO! It's MINE!"
They argued, pulling the letter between eachother. Vernon came running down the hall, and he had to wrestle both of them for it-- Harry had climbed on his back and nearly strangled him, while Dudley flung around his Smelting stick. After a minute or two of very confused fighting, Vernon straightened up; He was the victor, holding the now crumbled up letter in his thick palm.
"Go-- to your-- cupboard! I mean- you- your bedroom," He wheezed out at Harry. "Dudley-- go, just-- just go."
"NO! I - want - my - letter!" Harry screamed, pulling at Vernon's collar and stamping on Dudley's foot. Despite his efforts, he was pushed up the stairs and into his little room.
He walked round and round in his new room, throwing a few toys at another-- he'd even kicked the birdcage, which made a lot of noise when it fell right on the television set, and he'd even managed to get the rifle, but he couldn't care less. Maybe he was being childish, but he deserved to throw tantrums if Dudley was allowed to. Dudley, who was much worse than him.
Whoever was sending those letters knew he hadn't gotten his first one, and if they really wanted him to get that letter, then they'd keep sending them. He'd get one, eventually.
And he had a plan this time.
The next morning, in the early hours of the day, when it was still dark outside and the dogs in the neighbourhood had started their daily barking spree, he crept down the stairs, and walked around a sleeping Vernon on the doormat. He had been up for the last four hours or so, and for three of those hours, he had been planning, and happened to see from the top step of the stairs that Uncle Vernon had been sleeping on the doormat. So he would, very carefully, slip out the back door, and around to the front while Hydrus stayed in his cupboard and would take the letter before Vernon would even know it arrived. He was there incase it got past Harry, who would wait for the mailman on the doorstep.
It was relatively fool-proof.
The only downside was that Harry had never been more tired, and never so confused either. Why were there owls outside the house? It was early, and owls didn't normally sit around outside at dawn, especially around the neighbourhood. But then he decided to listen to the voices, who were finally talking logically, saying he was just tired, so nevermind it.
Harry waited, seated at the edge of the doorstep for a good fifteen minutes, before deciding on a different course of action. Instead of almost falling asleep infront of the door, he'd hide in his cupboard and take the letters from Hydrus when they came in.
But when he slipped back in through the back door, Vernon already had the letters in his lap. He was awake now, and wrestling Hydrus for one of three letters addressed in green ink.
"My letter!" He yelled, but the letter between Vernon and Hydrus tore in half from the force, and the other two were ripped to shreds before his eyes. The noise he unintentionally let out sounded like a weird sort mixture of a shriek and a groan in his ears. He couldn't even stop himself from stomping his way back up to his room, Hydrus slithering behind.
At breakfast, Vernon did not read his morning paper and leave to go to work. He stayed in the hallway and nailed up the mail slot.
"See," he explained to 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 right in the head, not like you and me," said Vernon, though he looked rather silly, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake that Petunia had brought him.
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. Since they couldn't get in through the mail slot, they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few had even been forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.
Vernon stayed home from work again. After making Harry watch as he burned 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 even the smallest of noises, such as Harry turned a page in a book purposefully loudly. Vernon was so out of it that he hadn't even imagined that Harry was trying to do it.
On Saturday, things were beginning to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters had found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden within every single one of the two dozen eggs that the very confused milkman handed Petunia through the living room window. As Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post and the dairy, trying to find someone to complain to, Harry watched Petunia shred the letters in her food processor.
He had never been so out of ideas. Everything he had thought of, Vernon had already considered. And there were only so many slaps Harry could take before he started to give up on trying.
It just didn't make sense to him. He rarely asked the Dursleys for things. He didn't purposefully try to bother them-- before recent, but that didn't count. He stayed out of their way when he did and didn't have to. He didn't complain whenever Dudley pushed him, or hit him, or broke his glasses for the third time in a week, and no matter how much the voices insisted he punch him back, he never did. He was a silent child, and as long as school was in, he was better in classes than his apparently bad behaviour would suggest. These past few days were probably the most they had ever heard him speak.
What is so, severely wrong with him that he couldn't even have one letter?
"I'm not weird, am I, Hydrus?" He muttered, that afternoon, when he'd been trying to write down possibilities. He'd been sent to his room when Dudley declared he wanted to watch his favourite television programs. His paper was looking a bit empty... he'd started with the possibility that, perhaps a few letters would find themselves through his window, or...
And that was it. A bit empty may have been an understatement, he could admit. Even the voices were out of ideas, what good they were when they weren't trying to get him in trouble.
"..Nothing's wrong with you, little snake..." Hydrus hissed. Harry jerked up from where he'd been sitting; No way Hydrus actually just spoke to him? He was mostly talking to himself! Sure, at the reptile house, it was a little less questionable, there was a lot going on then, but he thought he imagined it. Or that it was the voices again. He was weird, but he wasn't that much of a freak.
"Did you just speak to me?" He asked.
"Yes. You spoke to me in the tongue of my people... the language of the serpents.."
Okay, maybe he was that much of a freak. Or maybe just with snakes? He'd never heard any other animals speak.
"I did? Can you tell me what your people are like? People-- you're a snake! Wait, is it a normal thing to be able to speak with a snake? Have you been able to understand me this whole time and never said anything?"
He asked even more questions, more than he meant to, but Hydrus didn't seem to mind. That or he didn't care that Harry asked too many. He hissed out answers, and spent the whole day describing how he saw and spoke with the other snakes through their language, and whatever else. By the evening, Harry had forgotten why he was so angry, and even that he had been receiving letters. He had a strong urge to reread some of his books on snakes-- see if anyone else had been able to do what he could. Or he could've been going mental, but if he could speak with Hydrus instead of being lonely, he'd take mental. The voices were nowhere near as nice as Hydrus.
Sunday morning, Vernon was in a cheery mood, albeit his face was a sickly, tired pale.
"No post on Sundays," He said, a bright smile on his face as he spread marmalade on his papers.
"Something's wrong with the post?" Harry asked from his corner.
"Of course there is, boy! But today, there'll be no damn letters–" Vernon began to explain, a little paper hit the back of his head. Then one flew by Dudley's ear, and another by Petunia's neck, and then one grazed the top of Harry's head and hit the bookshelf. Suddenly, thirty or forty letters came bursting from the fireplace. The Dursleys ducked and screamed, but Harry suddenly remembered-- how had Hydrus distracted him so easily, he didn't think he'd ever know-- and went for any letter closest to him on the ground, grabbed an extra two, and began to run out the room.
Dudley pounced on his leg, screaming, "Don't leave me here!"
"Dudley, let go of me!" Harry struggled to make his other limbs move under the crushing weight of his cousin.
"Out--! OUT!"
Vernon seized Harry around the waist and, with much effort, threw both him and Dudley into the hall. Harry hadn't realised at first, but Vernon had taken the letters from him again. Petunia came rushing out with her arms over her head, and Vernon slammed the door, but letters bouncing off the walls still sounded.
"I want you all to be back here in five minutes to leave. We're going away. Just pack your clothes. No--"
"I WANT MY LETTER!" Harry shouted. But Dudley dragged him upstairs by the collar, not wanting to be yelled at. However, ten minutes later, he was sniffling in the backseat of Vernon's car-- he had been hit round the head for holding them up when he tried to pack his television, his VCR, and computer in his sports bag. Harry had gotten a hit just the same for putting up an argument. Currently, however, he was squirming around in his own seat, trying to free himself from the two seat belts and duct tape Vernon wrapped him in. He and Hydrus had been biting at bits of tape, but it'd yet to have any effect.
Harry screamed and kicked, and Dudley kept sniffling, but Vernon continued to speed down towards the highway, making sharp turns every now and then, checking the rear view mirror anxiously. Even Petunia didn't dare ask whatever he was doing, because he was too busy muttering, "Shake 'em off... shake 'em off..."
They didn't stop to eat or drink at all. By nightfall, Dudley was flat out crying-- genuinely crying. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he had missed approximately five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer. Harry had been asleep, Hydrus curled up across his shoulders, in as much of a dreamless sleep as he'd ever been. He had managed to escape one of the seat belts, though it had been rewrapped and retaped accordingly, much to his dismay.
Finally, Vernon finally stopped at a gloomy hotel, on the outskirts of an unfamiliar, large city. He made Dudley and Harry share a room with two beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored like a train while Harry sat on the windowsill, staring down at the passing cars on the street and trying to ignore the flashing lights of buildings he couldn't quite see. Hydrus had gone to look for rats, hissing to Harry that he heard a few in the walls. He sat there for hours on end, wondering... but eventually, he had to go to sleep sooner or later. He slept on the floor; He could've sworn there was mold on the mattress Dudley hadn't taken, and he'd rather his hair not be both matted and mouldy. It was hard enough to wash as is. And atleast he could get some form of entertainment, pushing around scared bugs and tearing them apart if they got too close.
The next morning, Harry persistently asked Petunia and Vernon if they had gotten any letters, but Petunia promised she'd get him two books if he stopped asking. Of course, he did, but he didn't eat any of his stale cornflakes, or the cold-tinned beans on toast, before Hydrus slithered up to him and wrapped around him. The owner of the hotel came up to them.
"'Scuse me, are any of you Miss, eh, H. Potter? Only I got about a 'undred of these at the front desk." She said, holding up one of the letters so they could read the green ink address.
Ms. H. Potter
Room 17 - Railview Hotel - Cokeworth
Harry jumped up to grab one, but Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared curiously.
"I'll take them," said Vernon, standing up quickly to follow her from the dining room, ignoring Harry's glare all the while.
"Wouldn't it be better to just go home, dear?" Petunia asked, many quiet hours later, but Vernon didn't hear her. Whatever he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove to the middle of a forest, got out, looked around before shaking his head and getting back in the car to drive somewhere else. He did the same in a plowwed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the very top of a multilevel parking garage.
"Mummy, Harry's escaped one from the tape again-- and a seat belt," Dudley called, sounding deathly bored-- probably the most he'd ever been in his life.
"Oh, leave him. I don't even care anymore," Petunia said, slouching back in her own seat.
"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" asked Dudley, looking and sounding very miserable. Petunia nodded, as Harry had freed himself from the second seat belt and fell over on his side with a sigh. After a bit of shuffling, he was laid on his back with Hydrus rolled up on his stomach in the form of a tall pile.
"Mummy, when are we going home?" Dudley muttered, snivelling as it began raining. "It's already Tuesday, The Popeye show's on tonight. I want to be somewhere with a television."
Harry's eyes jolted open. It was already Tuesday?
If it was truly Tuesday-- and despite many other things, you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because he had to know when all his favourite television programs were on-- then tomorrow, Wednesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday.
He hadn't ever really liked his birthday, maybe with the exception he was allowed to pick out an extra book every year, this year two extra, and the fact that there was a mystery sender who always sent him presents that somehow always ended up at the foot of his bed. He knew for a fact it wasn't any of the Dursleys-- none of them would dare give him a real gift. Just last year, they'd given him a coat hanger and a pair of Vernon's old socks. Maybe the two books Petunia swore to buy him could count as birthday presents too.
And it's not like you turned eleven every birthday. Maybe if he was lucky, he could find a dozen rocks and pretend they were candles.
When Vernon returned, he had a large smile. "Come on, everyone out! Found the perfect place!"
They all piled out, and Vernon pointed at what looked like a very large rock out at sea. Perched almost uncomfortably on top was a the most miserable little shack you could imagine.
"It doesn't look like there's a television there." Dudley grumbled.
"Stormy forecast for tonight!" said Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!"
A toothless man walked up to the car with a rather wicked grin and pointed at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron grey water.
"I've already got us some rations, so all aboard!"
It was freezing. In the boat, as the icy sprays of rain and water hit all of them while the cold air only added to it, there was water flooding their shoes. Harry, being the only one without a coat, expected he'd catch a cold. After what felt like hours, they reached the rock, where Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken down house.
The inside was just as cold inside as it was outside; And not to mention, and it smelled and looked incredibly horrid. Wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, making the entire place shake, and the fireplace was very damp and very empty. There were only two rooms.
The rations hadn't lasted five minutes; It turned out to be four tiny bags of soggy chips and four half-rotten bananas. Dudley took Harry's chips but gave him his banana in return. When they were empty, Vernon tried to start a fire, but only got smoke. The empty chip bags shrivelled up and the banana peels left a foul smell in the air.
"Could do with some of those letters now, hm," Vernon said, ridiculously cheerfully.
He clearly thought not a single letter could reach all the way out here. Harry nodded involuntarily, if it'd avoid him getting hit for nothing, but it didn't make him any less angry, nor any less cold.
As what one could assume to be proper night, the promised storm hit the hut. And hard. There was so much water spraying into the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the windows; Everything shook to the point that it seemed the entire place would fall apart upon them.
Petunia made up a bed for Dudley on the disgusting sofa, while she and Vernon took the lumpy bed next door, leaving Harry to find the softest bit of floor and make due with the thinnest and the most ripped blanket. He tried, truly, to find the softest patch of dirt while Hydrus curled up like he had always done, and twisted and turned slightly to get comfortable enough when he finally found a spot that didn't make him feel like his head was thudding against pure rock-- rock that he couldn't just stomp on until it broke, so finding his eleven wasn't going to happen.
Dudley's snores, added with the loud storm making the walls and windows shake, had only made Harry even less tired. He was seriously hungry, and the sound of his own stomach rumbling didn't help. If the dirty wood was enough to attract termites, he'd figure himself desperate enough to eat then-- but even he had limits, and they were out of the question unless they decided to present themselves.
The light of Dudley's electric watch glowed, dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, almost directly towards Harry, although upside down. In eleven minutes, it'd be his eleventh birthday. Ironic.
He watched as it became 11:50, then 11:51, and then 11:52.
He watched as it silently ticked to 11:55. He heard something creak outside, and hoped the roof wouldn't fall in. Sure, it may be warmer, but he'd probably be all wet and very possibly smushed. He wouldn't be nearly as warm when he was dead-- from what he'd read before, dead people weren't very warm.
Four minutes; Maybe the house would be so stuffed with letters when they returned that he could steal one and it go unnoticed.
Three minutes; Was that noise the sea and the storm, working together to hit the rock? He hoped it wasn't any of the worst possibilities that could've resulted from that. The voices told him he'd better not worry, but it didn't help much.
Two minutes; He heard crumbling, and what was that constant crunching noise? Was the rock falling apart and breaking down into the water?
One minute, and he'd be eleven. He counted down the seconds in his head when he saw the watch tick to 11:59. Thirty seconds... twenty... ten... maybe he'd drop some dirt on Dudley's face and make that his own present... three... two... one.
BOOM!
The entire hut shook. Harry shivered and sat upright towards the door. Would he die on his birthday from something other than the hut crashing in? Someone or something or whatever, was outside, knocking loudly.