Adventures of Harriet Potter

The Worst Birthday

Harriet trembled in fear. Granted it was not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his niece Harriet's room. "Third time this week!" he roared across the table. "If you can't control that owl, it'll have to go!" Harriet tried, yet again, to explain. "She's bored," she said. "She's used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night —"
"Do I look stupid?" snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. "I know what'll happen if that owl's let out." He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia. Harriet tried to argue back — not daring to mention the snide comment that her uncle looked very stupid indeed — but her words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys' son, Dudley. "I want more bacon." said Dudley while Harriet was eating just enough to avoid starvation. "There's more in the frying pan, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. "We must build you up while we've got the chance. . . . I don't like the sound of that school food. . . ." Meanwhile, due to her meager portions on holiday from school, Harriet was considerably underweight for the twelve year old girl she now was.
"Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings," said Uncle Vernon heartily. "Dudley gets enough, don't you, son?" Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harriet. "Pass the frying pan." he said in a rather rude tone. "You've forgotten the magic word," said Harriet irritably, instantly realizing her simple irate mistake.
The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples. "I meant 'please'!" said Harriet quickly, praying that Uncle Vernon wasn't about to resume punishing her for being a girl.. "I didn't mean —"
"WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU," thundered her uncle, spraying spit over the table, "ABOUT SAYING THE 'M' WORD IN OUR HOUSE?" Harriet whimpered and covered her crotch quickly, knowing from the first nine years of living with the Dursleys what punishment usually followed this level of her uncle's anger. "But I —" she tried, almost begging for him to not give her the inevitable punishment she wasn't sure she deserved. "HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!" roared Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist.
"I just —" she was nearly crying now. "I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!" Harriet stared from her purple-faced uncle to her pale aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet. "All right," said Harriet, "all right . . ." Closing her eyes and hoping he'd finish quickly this time, only to be surprised by her uncle not even touching her — as had been the case since she got home from school. Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching Harriet closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.
Ever since Harriet had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating her like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harriet Potter wasn't a normal girl by Dursley standards. As a matter of fact, she was as not normal to them as it is possible to be. Harriet Potter was a witch — a witch fresh from her first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have her back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harriet felt. She missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomachache. She missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, her classes (though perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in her four-poster bed in the tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest on the grounds, and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the Wizarding world (six tall goalposts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).
All Harriet's spellbooks, her wand, robes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harriet had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harriet lost her place on the House Quidditch team because she hadn't practiced all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harriet went back to school without any of her homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harriet's owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the Wizarding world.
Harriet looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harriet, on the other hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and fiery-red hair that was always untidy. She wore round glasses, and on her forehead was a thin, lightning-shaped scar. It was this scar that made Harriet so particularly unusual, even for a witch. This scar was the only hint of Harriet's very mysterious past, of the reason she had been left on the Dursleys' doorstep eleven years before.
At the age of one year old, Harriet had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and wizards still feared to speak. Harriet's parents had died in Voldemort's attack, but Harriet had escaped with her lightning scar, and somehow — nobody understood why — Voldemort's powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harriet. Harriet had a few theories of her own on that regard, but couldn't really prove anything. So Harriet had been brought up by her dead mother's sister and her husband. She had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding why she kept making odd things happen without meaning to, believing the Dursleys' story that she had got her scar in the car crash that had killed her parents. A bogus lie she would never forgive them for. And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harriet, and the whole story had come out. Harriet had taken up her place at wizard/witch school, where she and her scar were famous, much as she rather wished they weren't . . . but now the school year was over, and she was back with the Dursleys for the summer, back to being treated like a dog that had rolled in something smelly.
The Dursleys hadn't even remembered that today happened to be Harriet's twelfth birthday. Of course, her hopes hadn't been high; they'd never given her a real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it completely . . . At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat importantly and said, "Now, as we all know, today is a very important day." Harriet looked up, hardly daring to believe it. "This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career," said Uncle Vernon. Harriet went back to her toast. Of course, she thought bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He'd been talking of nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon's company made drills). Why a business meeting had to take place at Uncle Vernon's house as a formal dinner, Harriet didn't know nor did she give a bloody ounce of care.
"I think we should run through the schedule one more time," said Uncle Vernon. "We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be — ?" Harriet resisted groaning, she'd heard it so much over two weeks that she could lip sync the answers. Including her, rather depressing, own. "In the lounge," said Aunt Petunia promptly, "waiting to welcome them graciously to our home." Harriet tried not to gag at the false sweetness in her aunt's voice. "Good, good. And Dudley?" said Uncle Vernon. "I'll be waiting to open the door." Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. "May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?" Harriet sighed, knowing hers was next. "They'll love him!" cried Aunt Petunia rapturously. "Excellent, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harriet. "And you?" Harriet wanted to roll her eyes from how monotonous it was. "I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," said Harriet tonelessly. "Exactly," said Uncle Vernon nastily. "I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen —" Harriet wanted to rub her temples at this point. "I'll announce dinner," said Aunt Petunia. "And, Dudley, you'll say —" urged Uncle Vernon. "May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?" said Dudley, offering his fat arm to an invisible woman. "My perfect little gentleman!" sniffed Aunt Petunia. "And you?" said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harriet. "I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," said Harriet dully. "Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?" Harriet closed her eye, praying to any deity who'd listen for it to end already. "Vernon tells me you're a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason. . . . Do tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason. . . ." practiced Aunt Petunia. "Perfect . . . Dudley?" Uncle Vernon probed. "How about — 'We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.'" said Dudley, looking like his brain was hurting to just come up with that. This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harriet. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son, while Harriet ducked under the table so they wouldn't see her laughing. "And you, girl?" said Uncle Vernon, lacing all the venom of what he thought of girls who went above where he thought they belonged into his tone. Harriet swallowed and fought to keep her face straight as she emerged. "I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," she said. "Too right, you will," said Uncle Vernon forcefully. "The Masons don't know anything about you and it's going to stay that way. When dinner's over, you take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I'll bring the subject around to drills. With any luck, I'll have the deal signed and sealed before the news at ten. We'll be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time tomorrow."
Harriet couldn't feel too excited about this. She didn't think the Dursleys would like her any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive. "Right — I'm off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and me. And you," he snarled at Harriet. "You stay out of your aunt's way while she's cleaning." Harriet left through the back door. It was a brilliant, sunny day. She crossed the lawn, slumped down on the garden bench, and sang under her breath: "Happy birthday to me . . . happy birthday to me . . ." Her tone almost depressed.
No cards, no presents, and she would be spending the evening pretending not to exist. She gazed miserably into the hedge. She had never felt so lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing Quidditch, Harriet missed her best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn't seem to be missing her at all. Neither of them had written to her all summer, even though Ron had said he was going to ask Harriet to come and stay. Countless times, Harriet had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig's cage by picking the lock and sending her to Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn't worth the risk. Uncle Vernon checked the cage every morning to be sure Hedwig hadn't been let out. On top of it. Underage wizards weren't allowed to use magic outside of school. Harriet hadn't told the Dursleys this; she knew it was only their terror that she might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped them from locking her in the cupboard under the stairs with her wand and broomstick. And what apparently kept Uncle Vernon from punishing her for being a girl. For the first couple of weeks back, Harriet had enjoyed muttering nonsense words under her breath and watching Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat legs would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and Hermione had made Harriet feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its appeal — and now Ron and Hermione had seemingly forgotten her birthday.
What wouldn't she give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? She'd almost be glad of a sight of her archenemy, Draco Malfoy, just to be sure it hadn't all been a dream. . . . Not that her whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last term, Harriet had come face-to-face with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. Harriet had slipped through Voldemort's clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Harriet kept waking in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face, his wide, mad eyes —
Harriet suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. She had been staring absent-mindedly into the hedge — and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous green eyes had appeared among the leaves. Harriet jumped to her feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn. "I know what day it is," sang Dudley, waddling toward her. The huge eyes blinked and vanished. "What?" said Harriet, not taking her eyes off the spot where they had been. "I know what day it is," Dudley repeated, coming right up to him. "Well done," said Harriet. "So you've finally learned the days of the week." She hoped he'd go away quickly, so she could check the hedges. "Today's your birthday," sneered Dudley. "How come you haven't got any cards? Haven't you even got friends at that freak place?"
"Better not let your mum hear you talking about my school," said Harriet coolly. Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping down his fat bottom. "Why're you staring at the hedge?" he said suspiciously. "I'm trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire," said Harriet, actually knowing a few fire spells that would do the job quickly. But she wasn't about to use one and get herself in trouble. Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his fat face. "You c-can't — Dad told you you're not to do m-magic — he said he'll chuck you out of the house — and you haven't got anywhere else to go — you haven't got any friends to take you —"
"Jiggery pokery!" said Harriet in a fierce voice. "Hocus pocus — squiggly wiggly —" Actually enjoying herself for the moment. "MUUUUUUM!" howled Dudley, tripping over his feet as he dashed back toward the house. "MUUUUM! She's doing you know what!" Harriet paid dearly for her moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt Petunia knew she hadn't really done magic, but she still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at her head with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave her work to do, with the promise she wouldn't eat again until he'd finished.
While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice cream, Harriet cleaned the windows, washed the car Aunt Petunia used to go to the grocery store while Uncle Vernon was at work, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flower beds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of her neck. Harriet knew she shouldn't have risen to Dudley's bait, but Dudley had said the very thing Harriet had been thinking herself . . . maybe she didn't have any friends at Hogwarts. . . .
Wish they could see famous Harriet Potter now, she thought savagely as she spread manure on the flower beds, her back aching, sweat running down her face. It was half past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, she heard Aunt Petunia calling her. "Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!" she said disdainfully, as if Harriet would contaminate her immaculate house by walking through it before the Mason's arrived. Harriet moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight's pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets. A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.
"Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!" snapped Aunt Petunia, pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress. Harriet washed her hands and bolted down her pitiful supper. The moment she had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away her plate. "Upstairs! Hurry!" As she passed the door to the living room, Harriet caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. She had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Vernon's furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Remember, girl — one sound —" he spat at her. Harriet crossed to her bedroom on tiptoe, slipped inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on her bed. The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.