The Mysterious Heir

Chapter 1, Book 3, "Aunt Marge"

Harry's POV

I go down to breakfast and I find the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They are watching a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who is complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room. Dudley has spent most of the summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling as he eats continually.

I sit down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of moustache. Far from wishing me a happy birthday, none of the Dursleys give any sign that they notice me entering the room, but I am far too used to this to care. I help myself to a piece of toast and then I look up at the newsreader on the television, who is halfway through a report on an escaped convict.

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

"No need to tell us he's no good," snorts 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 shoots me a nasty look, my untidy hair has always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face is surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, I feel very well groomed.

The newsreader reappears.

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

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

Aunt Petunia, who is bony and horse-faced, whips around and peers intently out of the kitchen window. I know Aunt Petunia would simply love to be the one to call the hotline number. She is the nosiest woman in the world and spends most of her time spying on the boring, law-abiding neighbours.

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

'Very true,' says Aunt Petunia, who is still squinting into next door's runner-beans.

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

My thoughts come back to earth with an unpleasant bump.

"Aunt Marge?" I blurt out. "Sh-she's not coming here, is she?"

Aunt Marge is Uncle Vernon's sister. Even though she is not a blood relative of mine, I am forced to call her 'Aunt' my whole life. Aunt Marge lives in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she breeds bulldogs. She doesn't often stay in Privet Drive, because she can't bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of her visits stand out vividly in my mind.

At Dudley's fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge whacked me around the shins with her walking stick to stop me beating Dudley at musical statues. A few years later, she turned up at Christmas with a computerised robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for me. On her last visit, the year before I started at Hogwarts, I accidentally stepped on the paw of her favourite dog, Ripper, who chased me out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge refused to call him off until past midnight. The memory of that incident still brings tears of laughter to Dudley's eyes.