CHAPTER THREE
Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three
things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister
Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown enve-
lope that looked like a bill, and — a letter for Harry.
Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a gi-
ant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him.
Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives — he didn’t be-
long to the library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for
books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there
could be no mistake:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment,
and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no
stamp.
Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a pur-
ple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a
snake surrounding a large letter H.
“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen.
“What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at
his own joke.
Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He
handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and
slowly began to open the yellow envelope.
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