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not,’ said Harry, shaking his head as though to scare off a fly, his mind racing now.

      ‘Then why —?’

      ‘He must have sent them,’ said Harry quietly, more to himself than to Uncle Vernon.

      ‘What’s that? Who must have sent them?’

      ‘Lord Voldemort,’ said Harry.

      He registered dimly how strange it was that the Dursleys, who flinched, winced and squawked if they heard words like ‘wizard’, ‘magic’ or ‘wand’, could hear the name of the most evil wizard of all time without the slightest tremor.

      ‘Lord – hang on,’ said Uncle Vernon, his face screwed up, a look of dawning comprehension coming into his piggy eyes. ‘I’ve heard that name … that was the one who —’

      ‘Murdered my parents, yes,’ Harry said.

      ‘But he’s gone,’ said Uncle Vernon impatiently, without the slightest sign that the murder of Harry’s parents might be a painful topic. ‘That giant bloke said so. He’s gone.’

      ‘He’s back,’ said Harry heavily.

      It felt very strange to be standing here in Aunt Petunia’s surgically clean kitchen, beside the top-of-the-range fridge and the wide-screen television, talking calmly of Lord Voldemort to Uncle Vernon. The arrival of the Dementors in Little Whinging seemed to have breached the great, invisible wall that divided the relentlessly non-magical world of Privet Drive and the world beyond. Harry’s two lives had somehow become fused and everything had been turned upside-down; the Dursleys were asking for details about the magical world, and Mrs Figg knew Albus Dumbledore; Dementors were soaring around Little Whinging, and he might never return to Hogwarts. Harry’s head throbbed more painfully.

      ‘Back?’ whispered Aunt Petunia.

      She was looking at Harry as she had never looked at him before. And all of a sudden, for the very first time in his life, Harry fully appreciated that Aunt Petunia was his mother’s sister. He could not have said why this hit him so very powerfully at this moment. All he knew was that he was not the only person in the room who had an inkling of what Lord Voldemort being back might mean. Aunt Petunia had never in her life looked at him like that before. Her large, pale eyes (so unlike her sister’s) were not narrowed in dislike or anger, they were wide and fearful. The furious pretence that Aunt Petunia had maintained all Harry’s life – that there was no magic and no world other than the world she inhabited with Uncle Vernon – seemed to have fallen away.

      ‘Yes,’ Harry said, talking directly to Aunt Petunia now. ‘He came back a month ago. I saw him.’

      Her hands found Dudley’s massive leather-clad shoulders and clutched them.

      ‘Hang on,’ said Uncle Vernon, looking from his wife to Harry and back again, apparently dazed and confused by the unprecedented understanding that seemed to have sprung up between them. ‘Hang on. This Lord Voldything’s back, you say.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘The one who murdered your parents.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And now he’s sending Dismembers after you?’

      ‘Looks like it,’ said Harry.

      ‘I see,’ said Uncle Vernon, looking from his white-faced wife to Harry and hitching up his trousers. He seemed to be swelling, his great purple face stretching before Harry’s eyes. ‘Well, that settles it,’ he said, his shirt front straining as he inflated himself, ‘you can get out of this house, boy!’

      ‘What?’ said Harry.

      ‘You heard me – OUT!’ Uncle Vernon bellowed, and even Aunt Petunia and Dudley jumped. ‘OUT! OUT! I should’ve done this years ago! Owls treating the place like a rest home, puddings exploding, half the lounge destroyed, Dudley’s tail, Marge bobbing around on the ceiling and that flying Ford Anglia – OUT! OUT! You’ve had it! You’re history! You’re not staying here if some loony’s after you, you’re not endangering my wife and son, you’re not bringing trouble down on us. If you’re going the same way as your useless parents, I’ve had it! OUT!’

      Harry stood rooted to the spot. The letters from the Ministry, Mr Weasley and Sirius were all crushed in his left hand. Don’t leave the house again, whatever you do. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE’S HOUSE.

      ‘You heard me!’ said Uncle Vernon, bending forwards now, his massive purple face coming so close to Harry’s, he actually felt flecks of spit hit his face. ‘Get going! You were all keen to leave half an hour ago! I’m right behind you! Get out and never darken our doorstep again! Why we ever kept you in the first place, I don’t know. Marge was right, it should have been the orphanage. We were too damn soft for our own good, thought we could squash it out of you, thought we could turn you normal, but you’ve been rotten from the beginning and I’ve had enough – owls!’

      The fifth owl zoomed down the chimney so fast it actually hit the floor before zooming into the air again with a loud screech. Harry raised his hand to seize the letter, which was in a scarlet envelope, but it soared straight over his head, flying directly at Aunt Petunia, who let out a scream and ducked, her arms over her face. The owl dropped the red envelope on her head, turned, and flew straight back up the chimney.

      Harry darted forwards to pick up the letter, but Aunt Petunia beat him to it.

      ‘You can open it if you like,’ said Harry, ‘but I’ll hear what it says anyway. That’s a Howler.’

      ‘Let go of it, Petunia!’ roared Uncle Vernon. ‘Don’t touch it, it could be dangerous!’

      ‘It’s addressed to me,’ said Aunt Petunia in a shaking voice. ‘It’s addressed to me, Vernon, look! Mrs Petunia Dursley, The Kitchen, Number Four, Privet Drive —’

      She caught her breath, horrified. The red envelope had begun to smoke.

      ‘Open it!’ Harry urged her. ‘Get it over with! It’ll happen anyway.’

      ‘No.’

      Aunt Petunia’s hand was trembling. She looked wildly around the kitchen as though looking for an escape route, but too late – the envelope burst into flames. Aunt Petunia screamed and dropped it.

      An awful voice filled the kitchen, echoing in the confined space, issuing from the burning letter on the table.

      ‘Remember my last, Petunia.’

      Aunt Petunia looked as though she might faint. She sank into the chair beside Dudley, her face in her hands. The remains of the envelope smouldered into ash in the silence.

      ‘What is this?’ Uncle Vernon said hoarsely. ‘What – I don’t – Petunia?’

      Aunt Petunia said nothing. Dudley was staring stupidly at his mother, his mouth hanging open. The silence spiralled horribly. Harry was watching his aunt, utterly bewildered, his head throbbing fit to burst.

      ‘Petunia, dear?’ said Uncle Vernon timidly. ‘P-Petunia?’

      She raised her head. She was still trembling. She swallowed.

      ‘The boy – the boy will have to stay, Vernon,’ she said weakly.

      ‘W-what?’

      ‘He stays,’ she said. She was not looking at Harry. She got to her feet again.

      ‘He … but Petunia …’

      ‘If we throw him out, the neighbours will talk,’ she said. She was rapidly regaining her usual brisk, snappish manner, though she was still very pale. ‘They’ll ask awkward questions, they’ll want to know where he’s gone. We’ll have to keep him.’

      Uncle Vernon was deflating like an old tyre.

      ‘But Petunia, dear —’

      Aunt Petunia ignored him. She turned to Harry.

      ‘You’re to stay in your room,’ she said. ‘You’re not to leave the house. Now get to bed.’

      Harry

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