THE WORST BIRTHDAY
Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four,
Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning
by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew Harry's room.
“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If you can't control that
owl, it'll have to go!”
Harry tried, yet again, to explain.
“She's bored,” he said. “She's used to flying around outside. If I could just
let her out at night—”
“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his
bushy mustache. “I know what'll happen if that owl's let out.”
He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.
Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned by a long, loud belch from
the Dursleys' son, Dudley.
“I want more bacon.”
“There's more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia, turning misty
eyes on her massive son. “We must build you up while we've got the chance... I don't
like the sound of that school food...”
“Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings,” said Uncle
Vernon heartily. “Dudley gets enough, don't you, son?”
Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair,
grinned and turned to Harry.
“Pass the frying pan.”
“You've forgotten the magic word,” said Harry irritably.
The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible:
Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen;
Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth; Mr. Dursley
jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.
“I meant “please”!” said Harry quickly. “I didn't mean—”
“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered his uncle, spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT
SAYING THE “M” WORD IN OUR HOUSE?”
“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with
“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”
Harry stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale aunt, who was trying to
heave Dudley to his feet.
“All right,” said Harry, “all right... “
Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching Harry
closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.
Ever since Harry had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been
treating him like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harry Potter wasn't
a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he was as not normal as it is possible to be.
Harry Potter was a wizard—a wizard fresh from his first year at Hogwarts School
of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have him back for
the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry felt.
He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomachache. He missed
the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, his classes (though perhaps
not Snape, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the
Great Hall, sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower dormitory, visiting the
gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and,
especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world (six tall goal
posts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).
All Harry's spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line Nimbus
Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle
Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry lost
his place on the House Quidditch team because he hadn't practiced all summer? What
was it to the Dursleys if Harry went back to school without any of his homework
done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood
in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family
was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry's owl, Hedwig,
inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world.
Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and
neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and bony;
Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on the other hand, was small and skinny,
with brilliant green eyes and jet-black hair that was always untidy. He wore round
glasses, and on his forehead was a thin, lightning-shaped scar.
It was this scar that made Harry so particularly unusual, even for a wizard.
This scar was the only hint of Harry's very mysterious past, of the reason he had
been left on the Dursleys' doorstep eleven years before.
At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow survived a curse from the greatest
Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and wizards still
feared to speak. Harry's parents had died in Voldemort's attack, but Harry had escaped
with his lightning scar, and somehow—nobody understood why Voldemort's powers had
been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harry.
So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother's sister and her husband. He
had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding why he kept making odd
things happen without meaning to, believing the Dursleys' story that he had got
his scar in the car crash that had killed his parents.
And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harry, 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 something 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 ignore 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 career, “ said Uncle
Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought bitterly, Uncle Vernon was
talking about the stupid dinner party. He'd been talking 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 welcome them graciously
to our home.”
“Good, good. And Dudley?”
“I'll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. “May
I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”
“They'll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.
“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry. “And you?”
“I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there,” said Harry
“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them into the lounge, introduce
you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eightfifteen—”
“I'll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia.
“And, Dudley, you'll say—”
“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” said Dudley, offering
his fat arm to an invisible woman.
“My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia.
“And you?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.
“I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there,” said Harry
“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia,
“Vernon tells me you're a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason... Do tell me where you
bought your dress, Mrs. Mason...”
“How about: “We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and
I wrote about you. "”
This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry. Aunt Petunia burst into tears
and hugged her son, while Harry ducked under the table so they wouldn't see him
“And you, boy?”
Harry fought to keep his face straight as he emerged.
“I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there,” he said.
“Too right, you will,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. “The Masons don't know anything
about you and it's going to stay that way. When dinner's over, you take Mrs. Mason
back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I'll bring the subject around to drills.
With any luck, I'll have the deal signed and sealed before the News at Ten. We'll
be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time tomorrow.”
Harry couldn't feel too excited about this. He didn't think the Dursleys would
like him any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.
“Right—I'm off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and me. And
you,” he snarled at Harry. “You stay out of your aunt's way while she's cleaning.”
Harry left through the back door. It was a brilliant, sunny day. He crossed the
lawn, slumped down on the garden bench, and sang under his breath: “Happy birthday
to me... happy birthday to me...”
No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the evening pretending not to
exist. He gazed miserably into the hedge. He had never felt so lonely. More than
anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing Quidditch, Harry missed his best
friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn't seem to be missing
him at all. Neither of them had written to him all summer, even though Ron had said
he was going to ask Harry to come and stay.
Countless times, Harry had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig's cage by magic
and sending her to Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn't worth the risk.
Underage wizards weren't allowed to use magic outside of school. Harry hadn't told
the Dursleys this; he knew it was only their terror that he might turn them all
into dung beetles that stopped them from locking him in the cupboard under the stairs
with his wand and broomstick. For the first couple of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed
muttering nonsense words under his breath and watching Dudley tearing out of the
room as fast as his fat legs would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and
Hermione had made Harry feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting
Dudley had lost its appeal—and now Ron and Hermione had forgotten his birthday.
What wouldn't he give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard?
He'd almost be glad of a sight of his archenemy, Draco Malfoy, just to be sure it
hadn't all been a dream...
Not that his whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last term,
Harry had come face-to-face with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort
might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still cunning,
still determined to regain power. Harry had slipped through Voldemort's clutches
for a second time, but it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Harry
kept waking in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was
now, remembering his livid face, his wide, mad eyes...
Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. He had been staring absent-mindedly
into the hedge—and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous green eyes had appeared
among the leaves.
Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn.
“I know what day it is,” sang Dudley, waddling toward him.
The huge eyes blinked and vanished.
“What?” said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot where they had been.
“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right up to him.
“Well done,” said Harry. “So you've finally learned the days of the week.”
“Today's your birthday,” sneered Dudley. “How come you haven't got any cards?
Haven't you even got friends at that freak place?”
“Better not let your mum hear you talking about my school,” said Harry coolly.
Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping down his fat bottom.
“Why're you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously.
“ I'm trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said
Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his fat face.
“You c-can't—Dad told you you're not to do m-magic—he said he'll chuck you out
of the house—and you haven't got anywhere else to go—you haven't got any friends
to take you—”
“Jiggery pokery!” said Harry in a fierce voice. “Hocus pocus squiggly wiggly—”
“MUUUUUUM!” howled Dudley, tripping over his feet as he dashed back toward the
house. “MUUUUM! He's doing you know what!”
Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor 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 repainted 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
Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he thought savagely as he spread
manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat running 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 sizzling in the oven.