Harry Potter and the Call of the Force

Chapter One; After The Letters From No One

"Hmmm... Trying to escape us, they are. Irrelevant, that is, for find them, we will."

"Is it us they're fleeing from, or the ones from Hogwarts?"

"Again, irrelevant. Seek this boy, we both do. So reach him before the wizards do, we must."

"But Master, they will track him down wherever he and his family go to the best of their ability, just as we are doing. What if the wizards do reach him before us?"

"Impossible. Fly on brooms and transport themselves using magic, they may, but a ship to fly anywhere on this planet, we have. But if reach him first, they do, then prevent them, we will. To the best of our abilities."

"Master Yoda  -- do we really want to start a conflict with the wizards of this world? As far as we know, we are all that remains of the Jedi, and they are more formidable than they may seem. If we are to get that boy, we will have to act fast."

"Much to learn, you still have, Master Kenobi, even after all this time. Trust in the Force, you must, not in the power of magic. Strong, they may be, but stronger are we. But do not consider those from Hogwarts as our enemies. Noble, their intentions are, as are ours. Fight them, we will not, unless needed."

"Yes, master. I will take action once they reach that shack there."

"No need. Greet the boy myself, I will. Stay behind, away from this world, you will. Yes."

*   *   *

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.

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 brought.

"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 at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing for certain, there was no television in there.

"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 rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"

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.

Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he asked cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.

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 moldy 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.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The entire shack rumbled during a particularly long clap of thunder, and an eerie light shined through the windows as the thunder continued to hum. 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 and hiss 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.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And was that the wind, making the low rumble that shook the shack even harder? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? And the thud that followed it? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he'd be eleven. The eerie glow seemed to be lighting up the shack again. Thirty seconds... twenty... ten... nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him -- three... two... one...

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. It was shaking. Someone was outside, trying to come in.