A month flew by in the blink of an eye. The "mysterious disappearance of the glass" incident at the reptile house was, predictably, blamed entirely on Harry. Too many strange things had happened around him since he was a child for it to be a coincidence. In truth, it was his doing, though he didn't understand how.
For this transgression, the Dursleys enacted their harshest punishment yet: Harry was forbidden from eating bacon for an entire week, deprived of all fizzy drinks, and permitted to eat only fish and chips. He spent the week looking utterly dejected, his face a long mask of misery.
It wasn't that fish and chips were inherently bad; the first few times, he'd quite enjoyed them. But it was Petunia's go-to meal whenever she was too lazy to cook. Over time, the dish had lost all its charm. The cod, frozen for far too long, was tough and tasteless, and the chips were dry and hard. It was a difficult meal to swallow, and by his own recollection, Harry wasn't happy for that entire week.
Then came a morning in late July. Harry was helping Petunia with the house cleaning.
"Mail for the Dursleys!" the postman's voice called from outside, followed by the familiar clatter of letters hitting the doormat.
Vernon was lounging on the sofa, reading the newspaper. He spotted Dudley, fresh from his morning workout and shower, coming down the stairs.
"Dudley, go get the mail."
"Okay."
He walked to the door and picked up the small pile of post. There were three pieces in total. One was a postcard from Aunt Marge, who was on holiday. One was an electricity bill. And the third was a letter addressed to Mr. H. Potter.
The writing was in an elegant, emerald-green ink. There was no stamp. On the back, the envelope was sealed with purple wax, stamped with a coat of arms: a shield emblazoned with a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake, all encircling a large capital "H".
What's meant to come will come, Dudley thought. He carefully checked the mailbox one last time, a strange flicker of disappointment in his chest when he confirmed there was no letter for him.
He handed the postcard and the bill to his father.
"Oh, dear," Vernon grunted. "Marge is sick. Ate some bad whelks..." He tore open the bill with a disgusted snort. No one liked bills. He looked up, his eyes falling on the last letter in Dudley's hand. "Is that for you, Dudley? What's that strange material? Parchment? Who uses that stuff anymore?"
"It's for Harry," Dudley said, holding the letter so his father could see the recipient.
At those words, an eerie silence descended upon the house, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Vernon, Petunia, and Harry all stared at Dudley—or rather, at the letter in his hand.
Who would send Harry a letter?
The question hung in the air, leaving not only the Dursleys but Harry himself completely bewildered.
Vernon snatched the letter from Dudley and tore it open. Harry, his curiosity piqued, leaned in to read over his uncle's shoulder. Vernon only read the first line, but his face immediately turned from a florid red to a sickly green, faster than a traffic light changing colors. Within seconds, it had become a pasty, ashen gray.
"Pe-Pe-Petunia!" he choked out, the words seeming to drain all the strength from his body. "It's them!"
Before Harry could get a clear look, the letter was in Petunia's hands. She, too, read only the first line. She swayed as if she were about to faint, one hand flying to her throat as she made a small, strangled sound.
Now Harry was more curious than ever. He had never seen his aunt look so utterly undone.
"Aunt Petunia, what does it say?" he asked, leaning closer. But she had already folded the letter, hiding it from view.
"This is not for children to see," she said, her voice strained as she fought to maintain her composure. "Vernon and I have something to discuss. You two, go to your rooms."
"Okay, Auntie," Harry replied, playing the part of the obedient boy.
The moment they were in Dudley's room, Harry turned to his cousin. "Brother D, do you know what happened?" Spending so much time with Dudley had made him more mature than he appeared; he knew he would get more information from his cousin than from his aunt and uncle.
Dudley patted Harry's head, his tone somber. "Harry... you might not be going to Smeltings with me after all."
"Why?!" Harry's voice rose several octaves. Realization dawned. "Is it because of that letter?"
"Vernon..." Petunia's trembling voice drifted up from downstairs. "What do we do? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want him? We... we've finally managed to treat him like our own son."
"Petunia, I will not let them take anyone from this house!" Vernon's angry shout followed. "When we took him in, didn't we swear we would cut all ties with that... that world?"
Dudley heard his mother's choked sobs and his father's furious shouting. He had known this day would come, but he hadn't expected their reaction to be so extreme. A single letter had thrown the entire Dursley household into chaos.
Petunia and Vernon burned the letter, believing that if they ignored it, it would all go away. But Dudley knew this was only the beginning.
Early the next morning, the postman arrived right on time. Another letter for Harry, this time in triplicate. Vernon tore them to shreds in front of an expressionless Harry, who now associated the letters with being separated from Dudley. That afternoon, Vernon nailed the mailbox shut.
The third day, six letters arrived. The fourth day, twelve. The number doubled with each passing day.
Until Sunday.
"No post on Sundays," Vernon declared happily at breakfast. "No more of those damn letters."
As soon as the words left his mouth, something shot down the chimney, smacking him hard on the back of the head. Then, countless letters erupted from the fireplace like bullets, instantly filling the room. Today, the post wasn't delivered by a man, but by owls. They were everywhere, perched on the roof, the fence, the car.
Looking at the sea of letters, Dudley's heart felt strangely calm. It seems I am destined not to go to Hogwarts.
Following Vernon's frantic instructions, he began grabbing armfuls of letters and tossing them into the roaring fireplace. In a trance-like state, his eyes caught on one particular envelope as it flew towards the flames. His heart gave a painful lurch. He plunged his hand into the fire, snatching it back just in time. But it was too late. Most of the letter had been consumed by the inferno.
He stared at the charred remains. The recipient's name in the upper left corner was almost completely gone. But under the flickering light, he could just make out one thing. It did not start with an H. It started with a large, elegant D.
'Could this be my letter?!'
***
(End of Chapter)
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