I would hug you if I could.
Speaking of people who badly need hugs:
The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new cine-camera, crashed his remote-control aeroplane and, first time on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.
I'm guessing he was allowed out for school, but at this point, I wouldn't be surprised if there was an exemption for licensed and bonded Evil Step Parents. Also, I wouldn't fuck with Mrs Figg, her son can be... intense:
Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley’s gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader.
Dudley and his gang work on Ork rules.
The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley’s favourite sport: Harry-hunting.
This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had a place at Uncle Vernon’s old school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there, too.
I imagine Piers has resigned himself to being Dudley's girl when no other smaller boys are within reach.
Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local comprehensive. Dudley thought this was very funny.
Fun fact, this is one of the things online schizos use to push the idea Rowling seeded the book with dog whistles like she was the Based Riddler. This is because Stonewall (obviously named for the famous riot in America) is a UK LGBT+ charity that, like most such institutions, is now monomaniacally focused on the T+--which is also what most of these people got in their OWLs. This is of course ignoring that trans stuff wasn't nearly as prominent in the mid-90s when Rowling actually wrote this, and that nothing in the story actually indicates that Stonewall is a bad place. Harry's looking forward to going there!
‘They stuff people’s heads down the toilet first day at Stonewall,’ he told Harry. ‘Want to come upstairs and practise?’
‘No thanks,’ said Harry. ‘The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it – it might be sick.’ Then he ran, before Dudley could work out what he’d said.
I think part of the reason Harry's misery has proven so much more engaging than say, Gaia or Jill's, is that while Harry is definitely beaten down, he's not entirely resigned to it.
One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs Figg’s. Mrs Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats and she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for several years.
Harry was so happy, he produced an aurora borealis, entirely localised within Mrs Figg's kitchen.
That evening, Dudley paraded around the living-room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.
It also helps that Rowling is in fact, pretty funny. Really, if any part of this book was proof Rowling hated gay people, it's Smeltings, because they definitely still practise fagging in every sense of the word.
As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.
"I'll teach you to laugh at something that's funny!"
There was a horrible smell in the kitchen next morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water.
‘What’s this?’ he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.
If this was an episode of
Tales of the Unexpected this would definitely end with Petunia dying a horrible, ironic death because Harry was afraid to ask why she was screaming in the other room.
‘Your new school uniform,’ she said.
Harry looked in the bowl again.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise it had to be so wet.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ snapped Aunt Petunia.
I feel like people forget Harry can be a bit of a wit.
‘I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old things grey for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’ve finished.’
Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High – like he was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.
Okay, I refuse to believe this would be allowed. Now, I'm Australian, not British, but our schools (public and private) commonly require uniforms, and we either buy them from the school directly, or from shops partnered with them. That's kind of the point of a uniform, that they're all the same! Tell me, Britbongs, are you really just allowed to turn up to school in clothes that only sort of resemble the uniform?
Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smeltings stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.
They heard the click of the letter-box and flop of letters on the doormat.
‘Get the post, Dudley,’ said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.
‘Make Harry get it.’
‘Get the post, Harry.’
‘Make Dudley get it.’
‘Poke him with your Smeltings stick, Dudley.’
I'm just amazed Vernon asked Dudley to do something first. That's like an "I love you" by Harry standards.
Harry dodged the Smeltings stick and went to get the post. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was holidaying on the Isle of Wight
Man, we're really running out of places to send the Simpsons.
a brown envelope that looked like a bill and – a letter for Harry.
Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives –
Wizards breed like pandas. Or if you prefer, like the relatives of people in stories.
he didn’t belong to the library so he’d never even got rude notes asking for books back.
Man, imagine your childhood being so shitty even Matilda pities you.
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
See, fanfic writers? Harry's full name isn't "Hadrian," it's "H.!" Also, as terrifying as this already is for the Dursleys, imagine being the ignorant parent of some Muggleborn, and getting a letter from someone who knows what bedroom your kid sleeps in.
(I'm pretty sure they visit in person in those cases, but still)
‘Hurry up, boy!’ shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. ‘What are you doing, checking for letter-bombs?’ He chuckled at his own joke.
Rowling really has a knack for describing the worst guy you know.
‘Marge’s ill,’ he informed Aunt Petunia. ‘Ate a funny whelk …’
And the Dursleys do not approve of humour. Dudley points out Harry has a letter, which of course Vernon snatches away immediately, because nobody in this family will see Heaven at this rate.
‘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 greyish white of old porridge.
‘P-P-Petunia!’ he gasped.
Petunia: Is it from the wizards?
Vernon: Worse! Child Services!
Both Harry and Dudley desperately want to read the letter, but Vernon won't have it.
‘OUT!’ roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.
I'm surprised Dudley was in a fit state to fight. This is probably the first time anyone's ever told him no.
‘But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want –’
Harry could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer … yes, that’s best … we won’t do anything …’
‘But –’
‘I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took him in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?’
Look, Vernon, Publisher's Clearing House tells everyone they might be a winner.
That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.
‘Where’s my letter?’ said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. ‘Who’s writing to me?’
‘No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,’ said Uncle Vernon shortly. ‘I have burned it.’
Let me tell you, Stephen Fry makes that line sound utterly psychotic.
‘It was not a mistake,’ said Harry angrily. ‘It had my cupboard on it.’
‘SILENCE!’ yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling.
Harry: Are you guys alright?
Spiders: C̫͂̀͑̊̓ăn'̷̖̙̾͋t_̡̫̼̱̯̿̿̂̋ c̴͖o̶̍ͤ͌͞m̺ͬ̇́̀͊̊͟͠p̨̜͐̑l͈ͩa̡̢̛̛͓ͤͭ̆̚͜ï̟̿n̵
He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.
‘Er – yes, Harry – about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking … you’re really getting a bit big for it … we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.’
‘Why?’ said Harry.
‘Don’t ask questions!’ snapped his uncle. ‘Take this stuff upstairs, now.’
Harry: I don't want to leave you guys behind.
Spiders: I̿̋tͬ'͌s̼̅̀ f̮ͨ̐o̭͊͡r_̷ͥ ṭ͈ḥ̵͙ẹ̍̂ b͈ͨ̓eͯś̻t͑͠,͐ͯ͆ H͙͠a̚r̦͞ͅry̌
The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old cine-camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over next door’s dog;
Okay, how small was that dog? Or is that toy tank huge?
in the corner was Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his favourite programme had been cancelled
there was a large bird-cage which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air-rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it.
The parrot got off easy. Unless Dudley really ate the parrot and nicked the air-rifle.
Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they’d never been touched.
To be fair, who buys
Finnegan's Wake for an eight year old?
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother: ‘I don’t want him in there … I need that room … make him get out …’
Maybe Dudley's actually a larval dragon and this room is his hoard. Or he's a young boy with a serious hoarding problem his parents are too stupid to recognise as a mental illness, one or the two.
Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He’d screamed, whacked his father with his Smeltings stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof and he still didn’t have his room back.
Dudley is one of the few children I could believe holding their breath until they die.
When the post arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smeltings stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, ‘There’s another one! Mr H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive –’
With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smeltings stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry’s letter clutched in his hand.
Imagine if Harry accidentally used the Smelting stick like a wand, that'd be killer. Anyway, the next morning, Harry decides to get before everyone and wait for the post:
The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn’t wake the Dursleys.
I personally would've just gone and intercepted the mysterious, life changing letter in my pyjamas, but I don't know, maybe Harry sleeps in the nude.
...Orson Scott Card's
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.
His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall towards the front door –
‘AAAAARRRGH!’
Harry leapt into the air – he’d trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat – something alive!
Shit, Vernon left a Gelatinous Cube on guard duty.
Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realised that the big squashy something had been his uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn’t do exactly what he’d been trying to do.
And that Gelatinous Cube is Vernon.
Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the letter-box.
‘See,’ he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, ‘if they can’t deliver them they’ll just give up.’
‘I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.’
‘Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me,’ said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruit cake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.
It's bits like this that make me feel sorry for the Sea-King or Danny Tozer's dad.
On Friday, no fewer than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn’t go through the letter-box they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs toilet.
Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed ‘Tiptoe through the Tulips’ as he worked, and jumped at small noises.
On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living-room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food mixer.
You'd think at this point, Hagrid or whoever's in charge of the letters would just turn up in person, but I don't know, maybe they're just having a laugh at this point. Me, I'd bewitch Aunt Marge to write and send a Hogwarts letter herself. Really put the fear of Hecate in Vernon.
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 happily as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, ‘no damn letters today –’
Credit to the films, "Right you are, Harry. No Post on Sundays" is the superior rendering.
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, 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.
Similarly, Rowling definitely has a flair for visuals, which does have the side-effect some setpieces are arguably better served in live-action. Don't get me wrong, this is great, but it's not
quite the whole house filling with letters while Aunt Petunia and Dudley watch Uncle Vernon lose what's left of his sanity.
‘That does it,’ said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his moustache 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 moustache missing that no one dared argue.
On the other hand, we didn't get Griffith with half his moustache missing.
Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding towards the motorway. 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, video 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 turning and drive in the opposite direction for a while.
‘Shake ’em off … shake ’em off,’ he would mutter whenever he did this.
They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling. He’d never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television programmes he’d wanted to see and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.
Doom is going to blow this kid's fucking mind.
They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.
‘ ’Scuse me, but is one of you Mr H. Potter? Only I got about an ’undred of these at the front desk.’
She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:
Mr H. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
Okay, now the priority has definitely gone from "inform the Dursleys of the start of the school year" to "fuck with the Dursleys for being dickheads."
‘Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?’ Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a ploughed field, halfway across a suspension bridge and at the top of a multi-storey car park.
This is England we're talking about, so I assume this all took about ten minutes. I feel like there's a timeline where Hagrid definitely had to rescue Harry from a murder-suicide.
‘Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?’ Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car and disappeared.
It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley snivelled.
‘It’s Monday,’ he told his mother. ‘The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television.’
I really want to know what
The Great Humberto is like.
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday – and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television – then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun – last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat-hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.
I'm surprised they even told Harry his birthday.
Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.
In case it isn't obvious, that's a gun, and while this was before gun laws in the UK got
really strict after Dunblane, I imagine we're almost certainly supposed to assume Vernon got it illegally.
‘Found the perfect place!’ he said. ‘Come on! Everyone out!’
It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out to sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.
On the bright side, imagine what this place would go for in London.
‘Storm forecast for tonight!’ said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. ‘And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!’
A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowing boat bobbing in the iron-grey water below them.
‘I’ve already got us some rations,’ said Uncle Vernon, ‘so all aboard!’
Let's be real, if Hagrid hadn't arrived when he did, this guy was definitely coming back to murder everyone in their sleep.
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.
The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.
According to Rowling, Vernon probably chose this place because of a half-remembered superstition regarding witches not being able to cross running water. That's the thing about Rowling's Word of God, it's either perfectly logical, interesting extrapolation, or the dumbest shit you've ever heard.
Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a packet of crisps each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty crisp packets just smoked and shrivelled up.
‘Could do with some of those letters now, eh?’ he said cheerfully.
Oh, we were definitely going to die in this hut.
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver post. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer him up at all.
Harry, these guys have power over eggs.
As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few mouldy 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.
I'm almost (
almost) surprised Vernon never tried killing Harry, or if that's too edgy, abandoning him on the side of the road somewhere.
Dudley’s snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. 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, wondering 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.
I'm kind of disappointed Privet Drive didn't end up exploding from all the letters.
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 –
I love Harry so much.
Aw shit, Dreadnought 3's crashed into the hut and has to pass on his powers to Harry.
(Someone write that)
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.
Vernon:
The end is near. I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me. God, that hand! The window! The window!
Okay, one more chapter. But then it's straight to bed, all of you!
(Yaaaaay)
There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands – now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. ‘I warn you – I’m armed!’
"And if you believe some enthusiastic corners of the internet, this gun trumps any wizard's magic!"
SMASH!
The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.
A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.
The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.
‘Couldn’t make us a cup o’ tea, could yeh? It’s not been an easy journey …’
Apparently, Rowling based Hagrid on this guy she knew--this big, hulking biker wrapped in leather who'd stomp into the pub, sit down, and immediately start fussing about the state of his flower garden.
‘An’ here’s Harry!’ said the giant.
Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.
‘Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby,’ said the giant. ‘Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer mum’s eyes.’
Rowling: Copy paste a few dozen times, adjust for the dialect, and... there, that's a quarter of the series written.
Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.
‘I demand that you leave at once, sir!’ he said. ‘You are breaking and entering!’
‘Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,’ said the giant. He reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.
If it wasn't clear, Hagrid is fucking awesome.
‘Anyway – Harry,’ said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, ‘a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here – I mighta sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste all right.’
From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing.
And he already knows Harry's colour scheme!
Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, ‘Who are you?’
The giant chuckled.
‘True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.’
"I'm here to give birth to a thousand memes."
‘What about that tea then, eh?’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’d not say no ter summat stronger if yeh’ve got it, mind.’
His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shrivelled crisp packets in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath.
Gandalf may not be able to burn snow, but Hagrid can burn crisp packets like they were the finest Newcastle coal. Someone inform the powerscalers.
The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs and a bottle of some amber liquid which he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, ‘Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.’
The giant chuckled darkly.
‘Yer great puddin’ of a son don’ need fattenin’ any more, Dursley, don’ worry.’
Oh, Hagrid knew how this evening was playing out from the start, I'm sure of it.
‘Call me Hagrid,’ he said, ‘everyone does. An’ like I told yeh, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts – yeh’ll know all about Hogwarts, o’ course.’
‘Er – no,’ said Harry.
Hagrid looked shocked.
‘Sorry,’ Harry said quickly.
‘Sorry?’ barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. ‘It’s them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren’t gettin’ yer
letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t even know abou’ Hogwarts, fer cryin’ out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yer parents learnt it all?’
‘All what?’ asked Harry.
‘ALL WHAT?’ Hagrid thundered. ‘Now wait jus’ one second!’
Man, Dumbledore did not check on Harry at all over the years, did he? Or if he did, he certainly didn't pass on any intel to Hagrid. Eh, maybe he wanted it to be a surprise.
‘Do you mean ter tell me,’ he growled at the Dursleys, ‘that this boy – this boy! – knows nothin’ abou’ – about ANYTHING?’
Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school, after all, and his marks weren’t bad.
‘I know some things,’ he said. ‘I can, you know, do maths and stuff.’
Hagrid: Good, because we ain't teaching you that at Hogwarts.
But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, ‘About our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents’ world.’
‘What world?’
Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.
‘DURSLEY!’ he boomed.
I'm just picturing the guy with the boat, bloody hook in hand, listening by the doorway, wondering if
maybe he should find some other sacrifices for Them Who Dwell Below.
Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like ‘Mimblewimble’. Hagrid stared wildly at Harry.
Hah! That's a spell in one of the video games.
‘But yeh must know about yer mum and dad,’ he said. ‘I mean, they’re famous. You’re famous.’
‘What? My – my mum and dad weren’t famous, were they?’
‘Yeh don’ know … yeh don’ know …’ Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.
‘Yeh don’ know what yeh are?’ he said finally.
Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.
‘Stop!’ he commanded. ‘Stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!’
Hagrid: Oh, alright.
A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage.
‘You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you’ve kept it from him all these years?’
‘Kept what from me?’ said Harry eagerly.
‘STOP! I FORBID YOU!’ yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.
Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.
‘Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,’ said Hagrid. ‘Harry – yer a wizard.’
I like how matter-a-fact Hagrid says it in the book versus the film.
‘I’m a what?’ gasped Harry.
‘A wizard, o’ course,’ said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, ‘an’ a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else would yeh be?
I'll say, Harry's already mastered haircut reversal, sweater-shrink, and glass-begone. That's like, three quarters of wizardry right there.
Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
I like that Dumbledore is not above listing all his titles. It reminds me of how my step-granddad will always end emails with "Professor emeritus," even if it's like, a Christmas message to a relative.
Dear Mr Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
I've always found the fact it's "witchcraft and wizardry" interesting.
Harry Potter isn't like say,
Discworld or
Wheel of Truth, wizards and witches practise the same kind of magic. Maybe it's a holdover from like, ancient gender norms that haven't mattered for a long time?
Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks and he couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few minutes he stammered, ‘What does it mean, they await my owl?’
‘Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,’ said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl – a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl – a long quill and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note which Harry could read upside-down:
Dear Mr Dumbledore,
Given Harry his letter. Taking him to buy his things tomorrow. Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well.
Hagrid
I love Hagrid, but that owl probably deserves to shit in his pocket.
Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.
I assume wizard owls can fly through the space-between-spaces.
‘Where was I?’ said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.
‘He’s not going,’ he said.
Hagrid grunted.
‘I’d like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him,’ he said.
‘A what?’ said Harry, interested.
‘A Muggle,’ said Hagrid. ‘It’s what we call non-magic folk like them. An’ it’s your bad luck you grew up in a family o’ the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on.’
You just know Hagrid somehow said that with a hard 'r.'
‘We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,’ said Uncle Vernon, ‘swore we’d stamp it out of him! Wizard, indeed!’
‘You knew?’ said Harry. ‘You knew I’m a – a wizard?’
‘Knew!’ shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. ‘Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that – that school – and came home every holiday with her pockets full of frog-spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was – a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!’
It genuinely makes me sad Harry never met his maternal grandparents.
‘Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as – as – abnormal – and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!’
Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said, ‘Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!’
Technically not mutually exclusive, Harry.
‘CAR CRASH!’ roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. ‘How could a car crash kill Lily an’ James Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin’ his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!’
Should we take this as meaning Lily and James wouldn't be caught dead driving a car, or that something as trivial as a car-crash couldn't kill a competent wizard?
‘But why? What happened?’ Harry asked urgently.
The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked suddenly anxious.
‘I never expected this,’ he said, in a low, worried voice. ‘I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin’ hold of yeh, how much yeh didn’t know. Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right person ter tell yeh – but someone’s gotta – yeh can’t go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’.’
Even taking into account stuff we learn later, it still feels legitimately insane Dumbledore didn't do something about this situation.
He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds and then said, ‘It begins, I suppose, with – with a person called – but it’s incredible yeh don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows –’
‘Who?’
‘Well – I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No one does.’
‘Why not?’
‘Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went … bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was …’
"--Grant Morrison."
Oh, wait, this is Hagrid, not the other famous wizard with a cool beard.
Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.
‘Could you write it down?’ Harry suggested.
‘Nah – can’t spell it.
Been there.
All right – Voldemort.’ Hagrid shuddered. ‘Don’ make me say it again. Anyway, this – this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ’em, too – some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ’cause he was gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn’t know who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches … Terrible things happened. He was takin’ over. ’Course, some stood up to him – an’ he killed ’em. Horribly. One o’ the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn’t dare try takin’ the school, not jus’ then, anyway.
"Reckon yer need at leas' six books before you go attackin' a wizard school."
‘Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew. Head Boy an’ Girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst’ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get ’em on his side before … probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin’ ter do with the Dark Side.
‘Maybe he thought he could persuade ’em … maybe he just wanted ’em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Hallowe’en ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an’ – an’ –’
I'm surprised the fact Voldemort fell on Halloween never comes up when Hogwarts celebrates it.
Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s that sad – knew yer mum an’ dad, an’ nicer people yeh couldn’t find – anyway –
‘You-Know-Who killed ’em. An’ then – an’ this is the real myst’ry of the thing – he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn’t do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh – took care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even – but it didn’t work on you, an’ that’s why yer famous, Harry.
Spoilers, the curse Voldemort used on Harry isn't actually known for causing property damage. It's basically just an off-switch for human lives.
Something very painful was going on in Harry’s mind. As Hagrid’s story came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than he had ever remembered it before – and he remembered something else, for the first time in his life – a high, cold, cruel laugh.
Hagrid was watching him sadly.
‘Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought yeh ter this lot …’
‘Load of old tosh,’ said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped, he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there.
Uncle Vernon: I was the one who killed your parents!
‘Now, you listen here, boy,’ he snarled. ‘I accept there’s something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured – and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off without them in my opinion – asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types – just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end –’
How has Harry not turned these people into Chaos Spawn?
But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, ‘I’m warning you, Dursley – I’m warning you – one more word …’
In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.
I just wanted you all to enjoy the imagery.
‘But what happened to Vol– sorry – I mean, You-Know-Who?’
‘Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see … he was gettin’ more an’ more powerful – why’d he go?
‘Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’ believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of ’em came outta kinda trances. Don’ reckon they could’ve done if he was comin’ back.
See, this strongly implies Voldemort didn't leave a corpse, which is a bit odd if you know the mechanics of both the spell he used and how he survived the backlash. Was he just so full of black magic at this point he decomposed super fast? Or did Harry's love-powered-deflector shield render the curse more explosive than it normally is?
‘Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ’Cause somethin’ about you finished him, Harry. There was somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on – I dunno what it was, no one does – but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.’
Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he possibly be? He’d spent his life being clouted by Dudley and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn’t they been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried to lock him in his cupboard?
Now Harry, that's very advanced magic you're talking about. Turning them inside out would've done the job just as well.
If he’d once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had always been able to kick him around like a football?
Clearly the Dursleys dedication to mundanity and mediocrity has rendered them resistant to magic.
‘Hagrid,’ he said quietly, ‘I think you must have made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a wizard.’
To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.
‘Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared, or angry?’
Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about it … every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry … chased by Dudley’s gang, he had somehow found himself out of their reach … dreading going to school with that ridiculous haircut, he’d managed to make it grow back … and the very last time Dudley had hit him, hadn’t he got his revenge, without even realising he was doing it? Hadn’t he set a boa constrictor on him?
"Oh yeah, I have kind of blatantly warped reality a few times."
But Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to give in without a fight.
‘Haven’t I told you he’s not going?’ he hissed. ‘He’s going to Stonewall High and he’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish – spell books and wands and –’
‘If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop him,’ growled Hagrid. ‘Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s son goin’ ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name’s been down ever since he was born. He’s off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won’t know himself. He’ll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an’ he’ll be under the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled–’
‘I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!’ yelled Uncle Vernon.
"I'd much rather have an untrained warlock who hates me all year round!"
But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head. ‘NEVER –’ he thundered, ‘– INSULT – ALBUS – DUMBLEDORE – IN – FRONT – OF – ME!’
He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley – there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal and next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.
Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.
NOW THE SON SHALL SUFFER THE SINS OF THE FATHER!
I love it. And yes, you are reading right, Dudley wasn't even scoffing Harry's birthday cake like in the film. Hagrid really just mutilated a child entirely because his father made a crack about his boss. What I'm saying is, this is one of the greatest children's books ever written.
Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.
‘Shouldn’ta lost me temper,’ he said ruefully, ‘but it didn’t work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn’t much left ter do.’
He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows.
‘Be grateful if yeh didn’t mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts,’ he said. ‘I’m – er – not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff – one o’ the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job –’
Okay, so Hagrid was the one responsible for the letters. Given what we see of Hagrid's sorcery skills throughout the books, I'm shocked he was so precise. I'd have expected Dudley to start shitting and vomiting letters till he died. Or maybe Hagrid was trying to do that, so they ended up in eggs.
‘Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?’ asked Harry.
‘Oh, well – I was at Hogwarts meself but I – er – got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.’
"And I'll curse any child whose parents claim otherwise!"
‘Why were you expelled?’
‘It’s gettin’ late and we’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,’ said Hagrid loudly.
Dudley was not the first.
