THE LETTERS
FROM NO ONE
“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia
suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to
hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He
drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around,
shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The
same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway
across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking
garage.
“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia
dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast,
locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.
It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud-
ley sniveled.
“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on
tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television.”
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Mon-
day — and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of
the week, because of television — then tomorrow, Tuesday, was
Harry’s eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never ex-
actly fun — last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger
and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still, you weren’t eleven
every day.
Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carry-
ing a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she
asked what he’d bought.
“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone
out!”
It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at
what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the
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