Emma Potter; Going to War

1: Left in the Dark

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close anda drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of PrivetDrive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives andlawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the useof hosepipes had been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usualcar-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of PrivetDrive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windowsthrown wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. 

Theonly people left outdoors was a teenage boy and a teenage girl who were lying flat on hisback in a flower bed outside number four. The boy was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had thepinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in ashort space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggyand faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. The girl was we a skinny, black haired except for the tips, hazel eyes wary, the soles of her trainers were also peeling, her t-shirt had shrunk in the wash so had her jeans. All the well; they fit her better now  basically, the appearance of a normal girl.

I wasn't one though.

me and my brother's appearances did not endear us to the neighbors,who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as we had hidden ourselves behind a large hydrangeabush this evening  we were quite invisible to passersby. In fact, the only way we would be spotted was if our Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petuniastuck their heads out of the living room window and looked straightdown into the flower bed below. 

On the whole, I thought we were to be congratulated on our idea of hiding here. We were not, perhaps, very comfortable lying onthe hot, hard earth, but on the other hand, nobody was glaring at us, grinding their teeth so loudly that we could not hear the news, orshooting nasty questions at us, as had happened every time we hadtried sitting down in the living room and watching television with our aunt and uncle. 

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, our uncle, suddenly spoke. "Glad to see theboy and girl have stopped trying to butt in. Where are they anyway?" 

"I don't know," said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. "Not in thehouse."

 Uncle Vernon grunted.

 "Watching the news . . ." he said scathingly. "I'd like to know whathe's really up to. As if normal kids cares what's on the news — Dudley hasn't got a clue what's going on, doubt he knows who the PrimeMinister is! Anyway, it's not as if there'd be anything about their lot onour news —" 

"Vernon, shh!" said Aunt Petunia. "The window's open!" 

"Oh — yes — sorry, dear . . ."

 The Dursleys fell silent. Harry and I listened to a jingle about Fruit 'NBran breakfast cereal while we watched Mrs. Figg, a batty, cat-lovingold lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She wasfrowning and muttering to herself. I was very pleased that I wasconcealed behind the bush; Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking us around for tea whenever she met us in the street. She hadrounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon'svoice floated out of the window again. 

"Dudders out for tea?" 

"At the Polkisses'," said Aunt Petunia fondly. "He's got so many little friends, he's so popular . . ." 

I repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley; they had swallowed all hisdim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gangevery night of the summer holidays. I knew perfectly well thatDudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent everyevening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, andthrowing stones at passing cars and children. Harry and I had seen them atit during our evening walks around Little Whinging; we had spentmost of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapersfrom bins along the way.