THE WORST BIRTHDAY
and the whole story had come out. Harry had taken up his place at
wizard school, where he and his scar were famous . . . but now the
school year was over, and he was back with the Dursleys for the
summer, back to being treated like a dog that had rolled in some-
thing smelly.
The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today happened to
be Harry’s twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn’t been high;
they’d never given him a real present, let alone a cake — but to ig-
nore it completely . . .
At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat importantly
and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.”
Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.
“This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my ca-
reer,” said Uncle Vernon.
Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought bitterly, Un-
cle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He’d been talk-
ing of nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife
were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge
order from him (Uncle Vernon’s company made drills).
“I think we should run through the schedule one more time,”
said Uncle Vernon. “We should all be in position at eight o’clock.
Petunia, you will be — ?”
“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting to wel-
come them graciously to our home.”
“Good, good. And Dudley?”
“I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a foul, sim-
pering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”
“They’ll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.
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