THE LETTERS
FROM NO ONE
Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and
flipped over the postcard.
“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny
whelk . . .”
“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Harry’s got something!”
Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was writ-
ten on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was
jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon.
“That’s mine!” said Harry, trying to snatch it back.
“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the
letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from
red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop
there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.
“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held
it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the
first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She
clutched her throat and made a choking noise.
“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!”
They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry
and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ig-
nored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting
stick.
“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.
“I want to read it,” said Harry furiously, “as it’s mine.”
“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the let-
ter back inside its envelope.
Harry didn’t move.
“I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted.
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