THE LETTERS
FROM NO ONE
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table
looking tired and rather ill, but happy.
“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he
spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no damn letters today —”
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he
spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next mo-
ment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like
bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to
catch one —
“Out! OUT!”
Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into
the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their
arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They
could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off
the walls and floor.
“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but
pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want
you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away.
Just pack some clothes. No arguments!”
He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no
one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way
through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward
the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had
hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack
his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.
They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare
ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon
would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a
while.
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