Uncle Vernon's small eyes swiveled around to Harry, who was rooted to
the spot.
"THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!" he roared, now holding the receiver at
arm's length, as though frightened it might explode. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT
SCHOOL YOURE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN! DON'T YOU COME NEAR
MY FAMILY!"
And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as if dropping a
poisonous spider.
The fight that had followed had been one of the worst ever.
"HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE LIKE -- PEOPLE LIKE YOU!" Uncle
Vernon had roared, spraying Harry with spit.
Ron obviously realized that he'd gotten Harry into trouble, because he
hadn't called again. Harry's other best friend from Hogwarts, Hermione
Granger, hadn't been in touch either. Harry suspected that Ron had
warned Hermione not to call, which was a pity, because Hermione, the
cleverest witch in Harry's year, had Muggle parents, knew perfectly well
how to use a telephone, and would probably have had enough sense not to
say that she went to Hogwarts.
So Harry had had no word from any of his wizarding friends for five long
weeks, and this summer was turning out to be almost as bad as the last
one. There was just one very small improvement -- after swearing that he
wouldn't use her to send letters to any of his friends, Harry had been
allowed to let his owl, Hedwig, out at night. Uncle Vernon had given in
because of the racket Hedwig made if she was locked in her cage all the
time.
Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and paused to listen
again. The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distant,
grunting snores of his enormous cousin, Dudley. It must be very late,
Harry thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he'd finish
this essay tomorrow night....
He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old pillowcase from
under his bed; put the flashlight, A History of Magic, his essay, quill,
and ink inside it; got out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose
floorboard under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and checked the
time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table.
It was one o'clock in the morning. Harry's stomach gave a funny jolt. He
had been thirteen years old, without realizing it, for a whole hour.
Yet another unusual thing about Harry was how little he looked forward
to his birthdays. He had never received a birthday card in his life. The
Dursleys had completely ignored his last two birthdays, and he had no
