Harry Potter 01 - Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

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 realise it had to be so wet.’
    ‘Don’t be stupid,’ snapped Aunt Petunia. ‘I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old things grey 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 Smeltings 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 from behind his paper.
    ‘Make Harry get it.’
    ‘Get the post, Harry.’
    ‘Make Dudley get it.’
    ‘Poke him with your Smeltings stick, Dudley.’
    Harry dodged the Smeltings stick and went to get the post. 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 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 greyish 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 Smeltings 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