LITMIR.BIZ

      Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade at weekends; he knew it was an entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot there. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?

      He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two o’clock in the morning.

      Deciding that he’d worry about the Hogsmeade form when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the chart he’d made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses and lay down, eyes open, facing his three birthday cards.

      Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment Harry Potter felt just like everyone else: glad, for the first time in his life, that it was his birthday.

      – CHAPTER TWO –

      Aunt Marge’s Big Mistake

      Harry went down to breakfast next morning to find the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate continually.

      Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of moustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy birthday, none of the Dursleys gave any sign that they had noticed Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too used to this to care. He helped himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the newsreader on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict.

      ‘… the public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately.’

      ‘No need to tell us he’s no good,’ snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. ‘Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!’

      He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed.

      The newsreader had reappeared.

      ‘The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today —’

      ‘Hang on!’ barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the newsreader. ‘You didn’t tell us where that maniac’s escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!’

      Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would simply love to be the one to call the hotline number. She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on her boring, law-abiding neighbours.

      ‘When will they learn,’ said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his large purple fist, ‘that hanging’s the only way to deal with these people?’

      ‘Very true,’ said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into next door’s runner-beans.

      Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch and added, ‘I’d better be off in a minute, Petunia, Marge’s train gets in at ten.’

      Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the Broomstick Servicing Kit, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump.

      ‘Aunt Marge?’ he blurted out. ‘Sh-she’s not coming here, is she?’

      Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon’s sister. Even though she was not a blood relative of Harry’s (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia’s sister), he had been forced to call her ‘Aunt’ all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She didn’t often stay in Privet Drive, because she couldn’t

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