The Vanishing Glass
cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found
the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice
around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can — but at
the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.
Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at
the glistening brown coils.
“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped
on the glass, but the snake didn’t budge.
“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass
smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.
“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.
Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the
snake. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had died of boredom
itself — no company except stupid people drumming their fingers
on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than hav-
ing a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petu-
nia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to visit
the rest of the house.
The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it
raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry’s.
It winked.
Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone
was watching. They weren’t. He looked back at the snake and
winked, too.
The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley,
then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said
quite plainly:
“I get that all the time.”
27