Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he
hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another,
he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret,
in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.
It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the
blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand
and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot)
propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of his
eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something
that would help him write his essay, “Witch Burning in the Fourteenth
Century Was Completely Pointless discuss.”
The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Harry Pushed
his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer
to the book, and read:
Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly
afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it.
On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning
had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic
Flame Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying
a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being
burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than
fortyseven times in various disguises.
THE WORST BIRTHDAY
Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at
number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in
the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his
nephew Harry’s room.
“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If you can’t
control that owl, it’ll have to go!”
Harry tried, yet again, to explain.
“She’s bored,” he said. “She’s used to flying around outside. If I could
just let her out at night -”
“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling
from his bushy mustache. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let
out.”
He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.
Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned by a long,
loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley.
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THE BOY WHO LIVED
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last
people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made
drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did
have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had
nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she
spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the
neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their
opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t
think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs.
Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years;
in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her
sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was
possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would
say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the
Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy
was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn’t want
Dudley mixing with a child like that.
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