
Hagrid 

It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come 
in useful, but he put Hagrid's card up next to Ron's and Hermione's, 
grinning more broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from 
Hogwarts left. 

Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry slit open the 
envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within, and read: 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. 
The Hogwarts Express will leave ftom King's Cross station, platform nine 
and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock. 

Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain 
weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or 
guardian to sign. 

A list of books for next year is enclosed. Yours sincerely, 

Professor M. McGonagall 

Deputy Headmistress 
Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it, no 
longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade on weekends; 
he knew it was an entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot 
there. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt 
Petunia to sign the form? 

He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two o'clock in the 
morning. 

Deciding that he'd worry about the Hogsmeade form when he woke up, Harry 
got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the chart 
he'd made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to 
Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses and lay down, eyes open, facing 
his three birthday cards. 

Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment Harry Potter felt just 
like everyone else -- glad, for the first time in his life, that it was 
his birthday. 

CHAPTER TWO 

AUNT MARGE'S BIG MISTAKE 

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to find the three Dursleys 
already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new 
television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had 
been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the 
television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in 
the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five 
chins wobbling as he ate continually. 

Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with 
very little neck and a lot of mustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy 
birthday, none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had noticed Harry 
enter the room, but Harry was far too used to this to care. He helped 
himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the reporter on the 
television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict: 

"... The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A 
special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be 
reported immediately." 

"No need to tell us he's no good," snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over 
the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. "Look at the state of him, the 
filthy layabout! Look at his hair!" 

He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always 
been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on 
the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, 
elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed. 

The reporter had reappeared. 

"The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today --" 

"Hang on!" barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. "You 
didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! \What use is that? 
Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!" 

Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered 
intently out of the kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would simply 
love to be the one to call the hot line number. She was the nosiest 
woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on the boring, 
law-abiding neighbors. 

"When will they learn," said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his 
large purple fist, "that hanging's the only way to deal with these 
people?" 

"Very true," said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into next door's 
runner beans. 

Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch, and added, "I'd 
better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge's train gets in at ten." 

Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the Broomstick Servicing 
Kit, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump. 

"Aunt Marge?" he blurted out. "Sh -- she's not coming here, is she?" 
Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon's sister. Even though she was not a blood 
relative of Harry's (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia's sister), he 
had been forced to call her "Aunt" all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the 
country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She 
didn't often stay at Privet Drive, because she couldn't bear to leave 
her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in 
Harry's mind. 

At Dudley's fifth birthday party, Aunt Margo had whacked Harry around 
the shins with her walking stick to stop him from beating Dudley at 
musical statues. A few years later, she had turned up at Christmas with 
a computerized robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On 
her last visit, the year before Harry started at Hogwarts, Harry had 
accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased 
Harry out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to 
call him off until past midnight. The memory of this incident still 
brought tears of laughter to Dudley's eyes. 

"Marge'll be here for a week," Uncle Vernon snarled, 11 and while we're 
on the subject" -- he pointed a fat finger threateningly at Harry -- "we 
need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her." 

Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television. Watching Harry 
being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley's favorite form of 
entertainment. 

"Firstly," growled Uncle Vernon, "you'll keep a civil tongue in your 
head when you're talking to Marge." 

"All right," said Harry bitterly, "if she does when she's talking to me. 

"Secondly," said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry's 
reply, "as Marge doesn't know anything about your abnormality, I don't 
want any -- any funny stuff while she's here. 

You behave yourself, got me?" 

"I will if she does," said Harry through gritted teeth. 
"And thirdly," said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes now slits in his 
great purple face, "we've told Marge you attend St. Brutus's Secure 
Center for Incurably Criminal Boys." 

"What?" Harry yelled. 

"And you'll be sticking to that story, boy, or there'll be trouble, spat 
Uncle Vernon. 

Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at Uncle Vernon, 
hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge coming for a weeklong visit -- it 
was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him, 
including that pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. 

"Well, Petunia," said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet, "I'll 
be off to the station, then. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?" 

"No," said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now 
that Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harry. 

"Duddy's got to make himself smart for his auntie," said Aunt Petunia, 
smoothing Dudley's thick blond hair. "Mummy's bought him a lovely new 
bow tie." 

Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder. "See you in a bit, 
then," he said, and he left the kitchen. 

Harry, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified trance, had a sudden 
idea. Abandoning his toast, he got quickly to his feet and followed 
Uncle Vernon to the front door. 

Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat. 

"I'm not taking you," he snarled as he turned to see Harry watching him. 

"Like I wanted to come," said Harry coldly. "I want to ask you 
something." 

Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously. 

"Third years at Hog -- at my school are allowed to visit the village 
sometimes," said Harry. 

"So?" snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from a hook next to the 
door. 

"I need you to sign the permission form," said Harry in a rush. 

"And why should I do that?" sneered Uncle Vernon. 

"Well," said Harry, choosing his words carefully, "it'll be hard work, 
pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that St. Whatsits --" 

"St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!" bellowed Uncle 
Vernon, and Harry was pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle 
Vernon's voice. 

"Exactly," said Harry, looking calmly up into Uncle Vernon's large, 
purple face. "It's a lot to remember. I'll have to make it sound 
convincing, won't I? What if I accidentally let something slip?" 

"You'll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won't you?" roared Uncle 
Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist raised. But Harry stood his 
ground. 

"Knocking the stuffing out of me won't make Aunt Marge forget what I 
could tell her," he said grimly. 

Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face an ugly puce. 

"But if you sign my permission form," Harry went on quickly, "I swear 
I'll remember where I'm supposed to go to school, and I'll act like a 
Mug -- like I'm normal and everything." 

Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it over, even if his 
teeth were bared and a vein was throbbing in his temple. 

"Right," he snapped finally. "I shall monitor your behavior carefully 
during Marge's visit. If, at the end of it, you've toed the line and 
kept to the story, I'll sign your ruddy form." 

He wheeled around, pulled open the front door, and slammed it so hard 
that one of the little panes of glass at the top fell out. 

Harry didn't return to the kitchen. He went back upstairs to his 
bedroom. If he was going to act like a real Muggle, he'd better start 
now. Slowl