y and sadly he gathered up all his presents and his birthday 
cards and hid them under the loose floorboard with his homework. Then he 
went to Hedwig's cage. Errol seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig 
were both asleep, heads under their wings. Harry sighed, then poked them 
both awake. 

"Hedwig," he said gloomily, "you're going to have to clear off for a 
week. Go with Errol. Ron'll look after you. I'll write him a note, 
explaining. And don't look at me like that" -- Hedwig's large amber eyes 
were reproachful -- "it's not my fault. It's the only way I'll be 
allowed to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione." 

Ten minutes later, Errol and Hedwig (who had a note to Ron bound to her 
leg) soared out of the window and out of sight. Harry, now feeling 
thoroughly miserable, put the empty cage away inside the wardrobe. 

But Harry didn't have long to brood. In next to no time, Aunt Petunia 
was shrieking up the stairs for Harry to come down and get ready to 
welcome their guest. 

"Do something about your hair!" Aunt Petunia snapped as he reached the 
hall. 

Harry couldn't see the point of trying to make his hair lie flat. Aunt 
Marge loved criticizing him, so the untidier he looked, the happier she 
would be. 

All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as Uncle Vernon's car 
pulled back into the driveway, then the clunk of the car doors and 
footsteps on the garden path. 

"Get the door!" Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry. 

A feeling of great gloom in his stomach, Harry pulled the door open. 

On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like Uncle Vernon: 
large, beefy, and purple- faced, she even had a mustache, though not as 
bushy as his. In one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked 
under the other was an old and evil-tempered bulldog. 

"Where's my Dudders?" roared Aunt Marge. "Where's my neffy-poo?" 

Dudley came waddling down the hall, his blond hair plastered flat to his 
fat head, a bow tie just visible under his many chins. Aunt Marge thrust 
the suitcase into Harry's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, seized 
Dudley in a tight one-armed hug, and planted a large kiss on his cheek. 

Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley only put up with Aunt Marge's hugs 
because he was well paid for it, and sure enough, when they broke apart, 
Dudley had a crisp twenty-pound note clutched in his fat fist. 

"Petunia!" shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Harry as though he was a 
hat stand. Aunt Marge and Aunt Petunia kissed, or rather, Aunt Marge 
bumped her large jaw against Aunt Petunia's bony cheekbone. 

Uncle Vernon now came in, smiling jovially as he shut the door. 

"Tea, Marge?" he said. "And what will Ripper take?" 

"Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer," said Aunt Marge as they all 
proceeded into the kitchen, leaving Harry alone in the hall with the 
suitcase. But Harry wasn't complaining; any excuse not to be with Aunt 
Marge was fine by him, so he began to heave the case upstairs into the 
spare bedroom, taking as long as he could. 

By the time he got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge had been supplied 
with tea and fruitcake, and Ripper was lapping noisily in the corner. 
Harry saw Aunt Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool flecked 
her clean floor. Aunt Petunia hated animals. 

"Who's looking after the other dogs, Marge?" Uncle Vernon asked. 

"Oh, I've got Colonel Fubster managing them," boomed Aunt Marge. "He's 
retired now, good for him to have something to do. But I couldn't leave 
poor old Ripper. He pines if he's away from me." 

Ripper began to growl again as Harry sat down. This directed Aunt 
Marge's attention to Harry for the first time. 

"So!" she barked. "Still here, are you?" 

"Yes," said Harry. 

"Don't you say yes' in that ungrateful tone," Aunt Marge growled. "It's 
damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn't have done it 
myself. You'd have gone straight to an orphanage if you'd been dumped on 
my doorstep." 

Harry was bursting to say that he'd rather live in an orphanage than 
with the Dursleys, but the thought of the Hogsmeade form stopped him. He 
forced his face into a painful smile. 

"Don't you smirk at me!" boomed Aunt Marge. "I can see you haven't 
improved since I last saw you. I hoped school would knock some manners 
into you." She took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and said, 
"Where is it that you send him, again, Vernon?" 

"St. Brutus's," said Uncle Vernon promptly. "It's a first-rate 
institution for hopeless cases." 

"I see," said Aunt Marge. "Do they use the cane at St. Brutus's, boy?" 
she barked across the table. 

"Er --" 

Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge's back. 

"Yes," said Harry. Then, feeling he might as well do the thing properly, 
he added, "all the time." 

"Excellent," said Aunt Marge. "I won't have this namby-pamby, 
wishy-washy nonsense about not hitting people who deserve it. A good 
thrashing is what's needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. Have 
you been beaten often?" 

"Oh, yeah," said Harry, "loads of times." 

Aunt Marge narrowed her eyes. 

"I still don't like your tone, boy," she said. "If you can speak of your 
beatings in that casual way, they clearly aren't hitting you hard 
enough. Petunia, I'd write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve 
the use of extreme force in this boy's case." 

Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that Harry might forget their bargain; 
in any case, he changed the subject abruptly. 

"Heard the news this morning, Marge? What about that escaped prisoner, 
eh?" 

As Aunt Marge started to make herself at home, Harry caught himself 
thinking almost longingly of life at number four without her. Uncle 
Vernon and Aunt Petunia usually encouraged Harry to stay out of their 
way, which Harry was only too happy to do. Aunt Marge, on the other 
hand, wanted Harry under her eye at all times, so that she could boom 
out suggestions for his improvement. She delighted in comparing Harry 
with Dudley, and took huge pleasure in buying Dudley expensive presents 
while glaring at Harry, as though daring him to ask why he hadn't got a 
present too. She also kept throwing out dark hints about what made Harry 
such an unsatisfactory person. 

"You mustn't blame yourself for the way the boy's turned out, Vernon," 
she said over lunch on the third day. "If there's something rotten on 
the inside, there's nothing anyone can do about it." 

Harry tried to concentrate on his food, but his hands shook and his face 
was starting to burn with anger. Remember the form, he told himself 
Think about Hogsmeade. Don't say anything. Don't rise 

Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine. 

"It's one of the basic rules of breeding," she said. "You see it all the 
time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be 
something wrong with the pup --" 

At that moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was holding exploded in her 
hand. Shards of glass flew in every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered 
and blinked, her great ruddy face dripping. 

"Marge!" squealed Aunt Petunia. "Marge, are you all right?" 

"Not to worry," grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face with her napkin. 
"Must have squeezed it too hard. Did the same thing at Colonel Fubster's 
the other day. No need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip..." 

But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both looking at Harry 
suspiciously, so he decided he'd better skip dessert and escape from the 
table as soon as he could. 

Outside in the hall, he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply It had 
been a long time since he'd lost control and made something explode. He 
couldn't afford to let it happen again. The Hogsmeade form wasn't the 
only thing at stake -- if he carried on like that, he'd be in trouble 
with the Ministry of Magic. 

Harry was still an underage wizard, and he was forbidden by wizard law 
to do magic outside school. His record wasn't exactly clean either. Only 
last summer he'd gotten an official warning that had stated quite 
clearly that if the Ministry got wind of any more magic in Privet Drive, 
Harry would face expulsion from Hogwarts. 

He heard the Dursleys leaving the table and hurried upstairs out of the 
way. 

Harry got through the next three days by forcing himself to think about 
his Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare whenever Aunt Marge started on 
him. This worked quite well, though it seemed to give him a glazed look, 
because Aunt Marge started voicing the opinion that he was mentally 
subnormal. 

At last, at long last, the final evening of Marge's stay arrived. Aunt 
Petunia cooked a fancy dinner and Uncle Vernon uncorked several bottles 
of wine. They got all the way through the soup and the salmon without a 
single mention of Harry's faults; during the lemon meringue pie, Uncle 
Vernon bored them A with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making 
company; then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle Vernon brought out a 
bottle of brandy. 

"Can I tempt you, Marge?" 

Aunt Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her huge face was very 
red. 

"Just a small one, then," she chuckled. "A bit more than that... and a 
bit more... that's the ticket." 

Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Aunt Petunia was sipping 
coffee with her little finger sticking out. Harry really wanted to 
disappear into his bedroom, but he met Uncle Vernon's angry little eyes 
and knew he would have to sit it out. 

"Aah," said Aunt Marge, smacking her lips and putting the empty brandy 
glass back down. "Excellent nosh, Petunia. It's normally just a fry-up 
for me of an evening, with twelve dogs to look after...." She burped 
richly and patted her great tweed stomach. "Pardon me. But I do like to 
see a healthy-sized boy," she went on, winking at Dudley. "You'll be a 
prop