THE LETTERS
FROM NO ONE
wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy
blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the
moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed
next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he
could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.
The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went
on. Harry couldn’t sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get
comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores
were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near mid-
night. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over
the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he’d be eleven in ten
minutes’ time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, won-
dering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the
letter writer was now.
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He
hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in, although he might be
warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet
Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he’d be
able to steal one somehow.
Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock
like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching
noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?
One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds . . .
twenty . . . ten . . . nine — maybe he’d wake Dudley up, just to
annoy him — three . . . two . . . one . . .
BOOM.
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at
the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.
45