CHAPTER ONE
the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt Petunia knew he hadn’t really
done magic, but he still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at
his head with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave him work to do,
with the promise he wouldn’t eat again until he’d finished.
While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice cream,
Harry cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn,
trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses, and re-
painted the garden bench. The sun blazed overhead, burning the
back of his neck. Harry knew he shouldn’t have risen to Dudley’s
bait, but Dudley had said the very thing Harry had been thinking
himself . . . maybe he didn’t have any friends at Hogwarts. . . .
Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he thought savagely
as he spread manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat run-
ning down his face.
It was half past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, he
heard Aunt Petunia calling him.
“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!”
Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On
top of the fridge stood tonight’s pudding: a huge mound of
whipped cream and sugared violets. A loin of roast pork was siz-
zling in the oven.
“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped Aunt
Petunia, pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the
kitchen table. She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail
dress.
Harry washed his hands and bolted down his pitiful supper. The
moment he had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away his plate.
“Upstairs! Hurry!”
10