He's awake instantly, and out of the cupboard in fifteen seconds, three of which he spends carefully displacing the spider that was crawling across one of his socks.

"Good morning, Aunt Petunia," he says politely.

She purses her lips, looking him over from head to toe when he exits the cupboard under the stairs, then says, "I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

By 'look after the bacon', of course, she means 'make breakfast for everyone'. There is an exact science to making breakfast in the Dursley household. Today being Dudley's birthday, it is not a good moment to burn some of the bacon slightly so they'll let him have it; instead he cooks a few of the slices a little crisper than the rest and surreptitiously cracks them apart, leaving penny-sized fragments among the crumbs on the serving plate. Uncle Vernon gets three eggs sunny-side up with four rashers of bacon and one slice of toast; Aunt Petunia gets two eggs poached with two slices of toast and one rasher of bacon; Cousin Dudley gets four eggs over easy with four rashers of bacon and zero slices of toast; and Victor gets to sit on a stool at the kitchen counter and eat his one scrambled egg off the same plate he served the bacon from, fragments of paper towel and all.

The table's almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looks as though Dudley has gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wants a racing bike is left as an exercise to the reader.

Victor's Uncle Vernon enters the kitchen as he's turning over the bacon. He inspects the process from afar, as if trying to spot a flaw and, not finding any, contents himself to sit on a chair, engulfing it with his backside, and read his newspaper.

His cousin walks into the kitchen with Aunt Petunia a while later, and, after making sure Victor doesn't have as many eggs as he does, starts counting his presents, with a huge smile on his face.

Then it falls. "Thirty-six," he says, looking up at his parents. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," says Dudley, going red in the face.

Victor sits quietly on his stool and eats quickly so that no one will notice the shards of crispy bacon hidden among his egg.

No one's paying attention to Victor; all their attention is dedicated to preventing Dudley from exploding.

"And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?"

Dudley squints and furrows his brows in concentration, then says slowly, "So I'll have thirty... thirty..."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums."

"Oh," he says, sitting back down heavily and grabbing the nearest parcel. "All right, then."

Crisis averted, Vernon chuckles and ruffles Dudley's hair. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!"

The phone rings, and Petunia goes to answer it.

And Dudley starts unwrapping the presents.

Victor finishes his breakfast and starts washing his plate immediately.

Dudley proceeds to unwrap a racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He's ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch—

—when Petunia comes back from the telephone looking angry and worried. "Bad news, Vernon. Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take him," she says, jerking her head in Victor's direction.

Poor Mrs. Figg. Her house isn't the most pleasant place in the world, but it does have the advantage of not containing any Dursleys.

Dudley's mouth falls open in horror.

"Now what?" she asks, looking furiously at Victor.

"You could leave me at home," he suggests hesitantly.

She looks like she swallowed a lemon. "And come back to find the house in ruins?"

It would not be productive to respond to that.

"We could phone Marge," he suggests.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."

"What about what's-her-name, your friend—Yvonne?"

"On vacation in Majorca," she snaps.

They could also just take him along on Dudley's birthday trip, but he's hardly about to suggest that.

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," she says slowly, "...and leave him in the car..."

Perhaps he'll die of heat stroke like he's heard happens to dogs when you do that. Wouldn't that be something. No, he shouldn't say that either.

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone..."

Dudley begins to cry. Or rather, he scrunches up his face and starts wailing—he hasn't really had a real cry in years.

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" she says, flinging her arms around him. 

"I... don't... want... him... t-t-to come!" he yells between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp-spoils everything!" He shoots Victor a nasty grin through the gap in his mothers arms. 

Victor looks back at him flatly, then looks away before Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon can catch him making what might be interpreted as an insolent expression.

...he's honestly shocked, but before he can do anything about it the doorbell rings.

"Oh, good Lord, they're here!" she says frantically and goes to answer the door.

Dudley immediately stops pretending to cry to welcome his best friend, Piers Polkiss, the one who usually holds Dudley's victims' arms while he punches them.

"You! Boy!" he says, looking at Victor. "Come here." And he saunters off to an out-of-the-way corner.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," he says, following.

When he's sure no one else will hear, he turns his purple-faced fury to Victor. "I'm warning you," he says, putting his face right up close to Victor's, "I'm warning you now, boy—any funny business, anything at all—and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

It's no use trying to explain that he never does things, they just happen.

"Understood, sir. I won't do anything, I promise."

He squints like he doesn't believe Victor but stands up straight and returns to the living room to talk to Piers' parents. Soon enough they have to go to the car.

Out to the car they go. Victor sits in the back and makes himself as small as possible, which isn't difficult.

Eventually they reach the zoo where Dudley and his friend were to spend the former's birthday. The Dursleys stop at an ice cream stand in front of the entrance and get large chocolate ice creams to Dudley and Piers, but before they can usher Victor away the lady inquires as to what he wants.

—should he say he doesn't want anything—no, it'll confuse the lady and the Dursleys will be embarrassed and they'll blame him for making a scene—he scans the menu for the cheapest thing he can see and says quickly, "I'd like a lemon ice lolly, please."

Vernon dutifully pays for it and doesn't even complain.

Into the zoo they go.

The lemon ice lolly is actually kind of nice. The zoo is all right too. He walks a short distance away from the Dursleys and Piers, far enough that Dudley and Piers won't find it convenient to hit him but close enough that Vernon and Petunia won't suspect him of trying to run off.

At lunchtime they eat at the restaurant, and Dudley throws a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory doesn't have enough ice cream on top, so Vernon buys him another one and Victor's allowed to finish the first.

What a day. Victor thanks Vernon politely and eats his secondhand ice cream. He thinks he might've liked the lemon ice lolly better, but he's hardly in a position to complain.

After lunch, they go to the reptile house. It's cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes are crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly finds the largest snake in the place. It could wrap its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crush it into a trash can—but at the moment it doesn't look in the mood. In fact, it's fast asleep.

Victor stands well back from the glass, mostly to stay out of range of Dudley. The snake doesn't bother him at all.

Dudley stands with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils. "Make it move," he whines at his father.

Uncle Vernon taps on the glass, but the snake doesn't budge.

"Do it again," he orders.

So he does, but the snake still doesn't react.

"This is boring," Dudley moans. He shuffles away

Victor feels a little sorry for the snake. He comes up to the enclosure once Dudley is a safe distance away.

Slowly, very slowly, the snake raises its head until its eyes are on a level with Victor's.

It nods, slowly and meaningfully.

...his first impulse is fear, because this is definitely something strange - he glances around to make sure the Dursleys aren't watching - good, they're occupied at the other end of the reptile house.

And it's not the snake's fault that Victor might get in trouble for its unusual behaviour.

Hesitantly, he nods back.

The snake looks at the Dursleys, too, then raises its head as if it were looking at the ceiling. It seems to be saying, with its oddly expressive face, "I get that all the time."

"I'm sorry," Victor murmurs. "I think I might know the feeling."

It nods vigorously.

He regards the snake sympathetically.

"Where are you from, anyway?" he wonders, looking around for a sign that might tell him this information.

It helpfully points with its tail at a little sign next to the glass that says: "Boa Constrictor, Brazil."

And in smaller text under that: This specimen bred in captivity.

"Oh," he says, subdued. "So you've never been outside the zoo before?"

It shakes its head.

And then Piers' voice rings, making the snake do something that would be a jump if it had legs: "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

"Sorry," he whispers hurriedly to the snake, backing away from the enclosure in alarm. He wishes he could help it somehow, but all he's done is call Piers and Dudley's attention to it, and nobody deserves that -

Dudley waddles towards them as fast as he can, leaning against the glass—

—and then he yelps and jumps back as the glass vanishes.

Oh no—he didn't mean to—

Too late.

The snake rapidly uncoils itself and slithers out onto the floor. People start screaming and running for the exits, but the snake pauses, looks at Victor, and says, "Brazil, here I come. Thankssss, amigo."

...despite the sudden rush of terror, he can't help smiling at that. "You're welcome," he murmurs. "Good luck."

Onwards it goes.

"Were you talking to it?" Dudley screeches.

"—Don't be silly, Dudley, people can't talk to snakes," he says quickly.

Uncle Vernon does not look convinced.

And the zoo director makes Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea and apologises over and over again, but that's it for them. Back to the car.

By which time Dudley's certain the snake nearly bit off his leg and Piers insists it tried to squeeze him to death.

The snake never did anyone any harm and he—consciously stops himself from wishing they wouldn't tell such awful lies about it, because look how wishing things turned out for him last time.

They get home and by then Vernon's playing along with Dudley and Piers' adventure story. The boy's parents arrive to pick him up soon after, and then he turns his previously concealed fury back to Victor.

"Go—cupboard—stay—no meals."

Petunia runs over to the kitchen to get him some brandy.

He'd really been starting to think he had it, that he'd never slip up again, never have another strange thing happen, never be locked in the cupboard again - it's been months since the last time, almost half a year, that's practically forever - he didn't do anything wrong - that poor snake probably got caught and put back in its enclosure as soon as they left...

He curls up in his tiny bed in his little cupboard and closes his eyes and tries not to cry. Things happen when he gets upset. It's important not to get upset.

The snake actually somehow managed to escape the zoo, and that earns him his longest-ever punishment. By the time he's allowed out of the cupboard for anything other than school the summer holidays have started and Dudley has already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

The biggest problem with summer holidays is, of course, that Dudley's gang visits every day: Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon, each bigger and stupider than the last, and Dudley, being the biggest and stupidest of the lot, is of course their leader. And their favourite sport: Victor hunting.

Victor makes himself scarce as much as possible without neglecting his chores. The last thing he wants is to give Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia the idea that he's turned lazy or rebellious; that'll just get him locked in the cupboard again, and over summer holidays they wouldn't even have to let him out for school. Being locked in the cupboard for weeks at a time without school to go to gets... bad.

In September, though, they're all going to secondary school. Dudley and Piers have been accepted to Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings, but Victor's going to Stonewall High, the local state high school. Dudley finds this hilarious.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he tells Victor. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"I don't think that would be very fair to the toilet," says Victor. And then he finishes dusting the mantelpiece and walks quickly out of the room, because somehow he doubts Dudley will be moved by this argument even if he manages to understand it.

One day in July Aunt Petunia takes Dudley to London to buy his uniform and leaves Victor at Mrs. Figg's, who seems to have lost some of her erstwhile fondness for her cats given that she broke her leg tripping over one.

That's a pity. He is as polite as ever, and asks if she needs any help cleaning up or anything, it's not fair for her to have to do everything for herself while she's injured.

He's such a darling. Yes, she'd love some help, and here, have some chocolate.

(Which tastes like it might be a hundred years old.)

Hundred-year-old chocolate is still an improvement on no chocolate at all. He tidies things up and washes dishes and vacuums carpets and brings Mrs. Figg a nice cup of tea and some toast with jam.

He is such a charming, helpful young man, and Mrs. Figg is sure to tell his uncle and aunt this when he returns home.

That evening, Dudley parades around the living room for the family in his brand-​new uniform. Smeltings' boys wear maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carry knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers aren't looking. This is supposed to be good training for later life.

Dudley looks silly, but then, Dudley hardly ever manages not to.

There's a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Victor goes in for breakfast. It seems to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink.

That's... mildly worrying?

The tub seems to be full of what looks like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

Aunt Petunia walks into the kitchen and doesn't spare the tub a glance.

All right then, he can assume it's none of his business and commence making breakfast.

Dudley and—

—Uncle Vernon come in, wearing identical expressions of disgust. Uncle Vernon opens his newspaper as usual and Dudley bangs his stick on the table as he's been wont to do lately.

He makes sure that everything about breakfast is perfect in the hope that no one will choose to blame him for the horrible smell.

They have possibly been informed of the source of the smell, because they don't complain. When he's done with breakfast they hear the click of the mail slot and the flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," says Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Victor get it."

"Get the mail, Victor."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

He gets the mail.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who's vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looks like a bill, and—a letter for Victor.

...that's terrifying. Who would send Victor a letter?

He picks it up and reads the front:

Mr. V. Evans
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey

So not only is someone sending him letters, they know about the cupboard. It has been very clear to Victor for a very long time that no one is to know about the cupboard. If he lets Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia see this, will they think he told? But if he tries to hide it, what if they know about it already?

The letter is very thick and heavy, the envelope made of a kind of paper he can't remember ever seeing before, yellowish and mysterious. It's addressed in emerald green ink, in fancy handwriting, and sealed in wax like something out of a storybook. There is no stamp. How did it get here? Letters need stamps on them to go through the post. Did someone just write it and put it through the mail slot? Is someone spying on him and writing him strange letters and putting them through the mail slot themselves? No, he doesn't think the Dursleys could possibly know about this. They aren't the sort of people who would be friends with anyone who would do that.

It's been a few seconds and any moment Uncle Vernon is going to yell at him. He makes up his mind. The postcard and the bill go in one hand, the letter in the other, and he walks quickly back to the kitchen and hands Uncle Vernon all of the post that is for him and turns to go to his cupboard, hoping that they will all just be ignoring him like they usually do and no one will ask what that is in his hand -

No one spares him a glance.

"Marge's ill," Uncle Vernon informs Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk..."

He gets the letter safely into his cupboard and sits on his bed and stares at it.

What should he do?

If he reads it - will the spy know? How are they spying on him? Will they cause trouble? If he doesn't read it will they cause more trouble? Maybe he should destroy it somehow and try to forget it ever happened.

Well, before he wastes any more time trying to decide, he should go wash the dishes. He stuffs the letter under his tiny mattress and goes back to the kitchen and cleans up his plate, pausing in front of the sink.

"Should I do the washing-up later so I don't interfere with... this?" he asks hesitantly, glancing at Aunt Petunia and gesturing to the metal tub full of horrible-smelling grey water and rags.

"I'll do it. Those are your new school uniforms."

...not worth commenting. He nods and goes back to his cupboard.

The letter is right there, under his mattress. Sealed with wax. Addressed in emerald green ink.

If there is someone spying on him, they might assume he's going to read the letter. And then they might do things based on that assumption, and they might be angry with him if it turns out to be false.

Carefully, hesitantly, he opens it.

The inside is just as fancy as the outside, written with green ink. The first page reads:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Evans,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

This is a problem.

They're expecting him to send an owl. He doesn't have an owl and would have no idea how to send one by post if he did. Or maybe the owls carry the post, and that's why there's no stamp? Who knows? They're wizards. Which is the second of the many problems that this is. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are going to be so upset.

All right, think. What does he do. Does he - try to go to the magic school, somehow? No, even if he knew where to get an owl, the Dursleys would never let him attend such a ridiculous school. He'll just have to hide the letter and hope they don't send any more. And get the mail as soon as it arrives every single day from now on in case they do.

There are more things in the envelope, if he cares to look.

Yes, they mentioned a list of necessary books and equipment. He'd better read everything and memorize it all, just in case the wizards show up and want to know why he hasn't answered their letter.

The list is also in fancy ink:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM
First-year students will require

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
  The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
  A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
  Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
  A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
  One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
  Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
  Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
  The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT
  1 wand
  1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
  1 set glass or crystal phials
  1 telescope
  1 set brass scales
Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS
ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus
Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

...this is very weird.

But he memorizes the list and carefully folds it back up and puts it and the letter neatly back into the envelope and tucks in the flap since the seal isn't holding it shut anymore, and shoves the letter under his bed again and goes back out to do something useful with his time.

The Dursleys did not actually miss him and don't notice anything out of the ordinary.

Good.

Then he can just pretend it never happened.

Except next morning there's mail again.

"Victor, go fetch the mail."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

He goes and fetches the mail and hopes there isn't anything from the wizards.

The only thing there is is, in fact, the letter from the wizards.

...oh no.

And Uncle Vernon knows there's mail so he has to think quickly - should he lie and say there was nothing, lie and say it was just an advert - no, it's bad when they think he lied about something -

"It's got my name on it," he says in what he hopes is a puzzled tone of voice. "Must not be important. Should I throw it out?"

The best description of what Vernon Dursley does then might be "guffaw," but that probably does not do justice to the full-body experience that was. "Who would be addressing letters to you, boy?"

"I don't know."

Okay, that's as much misdirection as he can get away with. He comes into the kitchen and shows Vernon the letter.

He glances at it dismissively—

—then stares, his face going from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights, and doesn't stop there, going all the way to the greyish white of old porridge. "P-P-Petunia!" he gasps.

Dudley's attention is caught, and he tries to grab the envelope.

But Petunia grabs it first, then looks at it and raises a hand to her mouth in shock. She opens it and reads the first line, and stops there.

Victor stands nervously in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall, ready to bolt if it looks like someone is about to blame him for this. It is sometimes a good idea to run away when Uncle Vernon is angry.

"I want to read that letter!"

"Get out," she whispers, "both of you."

Victor leaves the kitchen immediately.

Dudley has a short-lived fight with his father and is promptly kicked out as well, and the door closes. He immediately puts his ear against the keyhole.

He hesitates—

Yes, this is important enough to be disobedient for. He listens at the crack under the door.

"Vernon," Petunia says, in a small voice, "perhaps we should—"

"No, Petunia! I said I'd stamp out this nonsense and I will!"

"I did say we shouldn't have put him in the cupboard, and now they..."

"Yes! I know!"

...she did?

Well. That's - useful information.

"So what should we do Vernon?"

"We'll... just ignore it. Yes. If they don't get an answer..."

"But—"

"I am not having one in the house, Petunia, and that's that!"

"What did you do?" whispers Dudley.

"I don't know!" he whispers back. "Someone wrote me a letter, who on earth would do that?"

Vernon's steps can be heard walking back in the direction of the door—

He retreats down the hall to his cupboard as quickly as possible.

Dudley does likewise, running up the stairs to his bedroom as silently as his frame allows him to be, which is to say not very.

But by some providence of Fate Vernon does not hear him and merely returns to the living room to read his newspaper and calm down.

So. Ignoring the letter clearly doesn't work.

And - he has some sort of connection to these wizard people, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia know about it, it's not just some sort of strange crazy person spying on him and sending him weird letters, it's at very least a crazy person who's known him since he was a baby and is known to his aunt and uncle as the sort of person who'd send him a letter about wizard school - and Aunt Petunia didn't want to have him live in the cupboard -

Well. What does he do?

Try to preempt the mail next time, maybe, throw out the letter before Uncle Vernon can see it? But that won't help, they'll just send another one. He digs out the first letter and reads the whole thing over again in case he missed an instruction on how to send an owl. He did not. There is nothing. He folds it all back up neatly into its envelope and puts it away. Nothing to do but wait.

That evening, after returning home from work, Uncle Vernon knocks on Victor's cupboard.

He emerges immediately. "Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

"...so, Victor, about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

What.

"All right. I'll move all my things there," he says as soon as he recovers from his surprise. "Thank you, Uncle Vernon."

"Yes, good, go do that," he says, then turns around and goes off somewhere.

From upstairs comes the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, "I don't want him in there... I need that room... make him get out..."

Well.

He gets all his things, and makes sure the letter is hidden securely, and moves everything up to Dudley's second bedroom, and tries to disturb as few of the broken toys as possible.

He screams, whacks his father with his Smelting stick, is sick on purpose, kicks his mother, and throws his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, all to no avail; his parents don't budge.

In a way it's sort of comforting to know that no matter what other bizarre things might be going on, Dudley is still fundamentally Dudley. The dudliest of them all.

Sleeping outside of his cupboard makes him a little nervous, though. They said he's allowed, but it still doesn't quite feel like it.

They don't bother him, and are somewhat subdued the next morning. When mail arrives, Vernon tells Dudley to go get it, and he goes without complaining...

...only to cry, "There's three letters for him now! 'Mr. V. Evans, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive—"

Vernon yelps and leaps from his seat to run down the hall after Dudley.

Oh dear. Victor stays put.

There is a brief sound of a scuffle, but Vernon emerges victorious, holding the three letters in his hand. He cuts it up in little pieces and throws them all away, with a self-satisfied smile.

Well, as long as Uncle Vernon is happy...

Something tells Victor that's not going to last, though.

Perhaps not; he spends the rest of the morning looking frazzled and even a day at work complaining about everyone else isn't enough to lift his spirits.

Victor keeps out of his way as much as possible.

Are there more letters the next morning?

Twelve of them.

Oh dear.

"Maybe we should write back and tell them to stop?" he suggests tentatively.

"No! We do not engage with these people." And then he adopts that look on his face he gets when he makes up his mind about something. "Petunia, I'm not going to work today." And he saunters off to the garage without giving anyone explanations for this behaviour.

...this seems bad.

Victor decides he will clean the kitchen.

So he will witness his uncle returning from the garage carrying some planks of wood, nails, and a hammer.

Is he going to... nail a plank of wood to something...?

Not Victor's business. This kitchen is going to be so clean.

So clean!

Shortly before he's done, his aunt grabs some fruitcake to bring to her husband, who's been at it for a while.

"See," Victor can hear him explaining to Petunia when she wonders what on Earth he's doing, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"...I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," he says, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia has just brought him.

...

That just seems like a really bad way to solve this problem.

But it's still not Victor's business.

On Saturday there are twenty-four letters rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs the milkman brings. Vernon spends the day calling the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to.

"Who on Earth wants to talk to you this badly?"

"Someone who can put letters into eggshells, apparently!"

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sits down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy. "No post on Sundays," he reminds them cheerfully as he spreads marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today—"

Something comes whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he speaks and catches him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters come pelting out of the fireplace like bullets.

...that's not good, that's not good at all - Victor freezes in place. He can't think of anything to do that seems like it might be a good idea.

"Out! OUT!"

Petunia and Dudley duck and use their arms to protect their faces as they try to dodge the letters and escape the kitchen.

It takes Victor a moment to unfreeze, and then he runs for the back door. This is not a good time to be near Uncle Vernon.

"Not that way, boy!" he bellows, grabbing Victor by the waist and carrying him to the hallway before slamming the door shut.

He will have no trouble carrying his terrified nephew anywhere he likes.

No, he won't. "That does it," he says, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his moustache at the same time. "I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"

Victor is certainly not going to argue with his uncle in this sort of mood. He goes upstairs and packs some clothes and surreptitiously throws his hoarded letter out the window, and he's back downstairs two minutes later.

His uncle hits Dudley round the head when he holds them up trying to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag, and in ten minutes they're in the car and driving.

While he sniffles quietly in the backseat.

Not much Victor can do about Dudley sniffling. Not much Victor can do about any of this, really. Why couldn't they have just provided a way for him to send an owl...?

They drive. And they drive. Even Aunt Petunia doesn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon takes a sharp turn and drives in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake 'em off... shake 'em off," he mutters whenever he does this.

They don't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley's howling. He's never had such a bad day in his life. He's hungry, he missed five television programs he wanted to see, and he's never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer. Uncle Vernon stops at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Victor have to share a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets.

Whoever cleans this room is not good at it. If there even is anyone who cleans this room. Maybe Victor should clean this room.

Dudley will not offer to. He will try to sleep, and snore loudly when he finally manages to.

The room is spotless by the time Victor finally goes to sleep.

Which is nearing sunup, and he gets very little actual sleep before Vernon wakes them up and drags them to eat stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast in the morning.

It's not the best morning Victor has ever had, but also by no means the worst.

Dudley begs to differ.

They've just finished when the owner of the hotel comes over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. V. Evans? Only I got about an ’undred of these at the front desk." She holds up a letter so they can read the green ink address:

Mr. V. Evans
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth

...Uncle Vernon is not going to respond sensibly to this, is he.

"I'll take them," he says simply, and follows her to the front desk.

And now he's going to want them all to get in a plane and fly to New Zealand or something, right?

It doesn't seem to get that far—yet. Rather, he drives them for several hours still, into the middle of a forest, to the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and to the top of a multilevel parking garage. Finally, they reach the coast, where Vernon parks, exits and locks them all inside the car, and disappears.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" he asks Aunt Petunia.

With Uncle Vernon not around...

"Aunt Petunia," he says hesitantly, "do you think you could say something to him...? We can't keep doing this forever, can we?"

"Perhaps," she says hesitantly. "I'll mention something when he comes back..."

It starts to rain, great drops beating on the roof of the car.

Dudley snivels. "It's Monday," he tells his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television."

At this point Victor will be happy if they stay somewhere with a roof.

But presently Uncle Vernon returns, smiling and carrying a long, thin package. He ignores Petunia's pleas and says, "Found the perfect place! Come on, everyone out!" He seems oblivious to the heavy drops of rain pelting his face.

Please let there be a roof...

It's very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon points at what looks like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock is the most miserable little shack one could imagine. One thing's certain, there is no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" says Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!"

A toothless old man comes 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," says Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"

...it does, technically, have a roof. If only Victor had been more specific.

Into the boat he gets.

It's freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain creep down their necks and a chilly wind whips their faces. After what seem like hours they reach the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, leads the way to the broken-down house.

The inside is horrible; it smells strongly of seaweed, the wind whistles through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace is damp and empty. There are only two rooms.

This place is beyond any help Victor could give it.

Uncle Vernon's rations turn out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tries to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoke and shrivel up.

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

He's in a very good mood, probably thinking nobody stands a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. 

Victor hopes they don't send any owls. The owls would probably die.

As night falls, the promised storm blows up around them. Spray from the high waves splatter the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattles the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia finds a few mouldy blankets in the second room and makes up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon go off to the lumpy bed next door, and Victor's left to find the softest bit of floor he can and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

It's his birthday tomorrow. He'll be eleven.

Happy birthday to him.

The storm rages more and more ferociously as the night goes on. Dudley's snores are drowned by the low rolls of thunder that start near midnight.

And then Victor can hear something creak outside...

Did the wizards send some sort of monster to deliver the next letter. Is that what is happening.

Is that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And what's that funny crunching noise? Is the rock crumbling?

He gets up and goes to the door and opens it.

A giant of a man is tying his boat to the rock. His face is almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but one can make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. He looks up at Victor when the boy opens the door.

"Um. Hello."

"Well!" he booms. "If it ain't Victor himself! Yah's grown, boy! Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby!"

"Where's the cannon?" comes Uncle Vernon's cry from inside the shack.

"Sorry, I don't know your name," he says to the giant. "Are you here about the letters? I think Uncle Vernon would really like you to stop sending them."

"Aye, he would, wouldn't he?" the giant says, with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Now let's head inside, shall we, I don' reckon stayin' outside's gonna be good for me health or yours, eh?"

"Victor Antares Evans what do you think you're doing?!" comes Uncle Vernon's shriek when he notices the boy standing in the doorway. "Get back inside right this instant!"

"Ah, shouldn't keep the old prune waitin', eh?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," he says, going inside immediately. "I thought if I asked politely maybe they'd stop."

Vernon's expression shifts from frothing rage to abject terror once he sees the giant of a man squeezing into the hut after his nephew. The rifle he's holding—so that's what was in that long, thin package he got earlier!—shakes in his grip, but he doesn't shoot.

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..."

...Uncle Vernon is holding a deadly weapon. Uncle Vernon is holding a deadly weapon and he's terrified.

There is probably a productive response to this but Victor has no idea what it is and doesn't think he could make use of it even if he did, because he is frozen to the spot.

Hagrid seems unintimidated. "Budge up, yeh great lump," he tells Dudley as he walks over to the sofa.

Dudley squeaks and runs to hide behind his mother.

Who's looking at Hagrid with a strange mixture of fear and curiosity.

Victor is still kind of preoccupied with the part where Uncle Vernon has a rifle.

"I demand that you leave at once, sir!" Vernon squeaks. "You are breaking and entering!"

"Vernon—"

"Ah, shut up, Dursley," says the giant; he reaches over the back of the sofa, jerks the gun out of Uncle Vernon's hands, bends it into a knot as easily as if it's made of rubber, and throws it into a corner of the room. 

He makes a noise like a mouse that's been trodded on.

...well that's frightening in an entirely different way.

But at least the giant is not Uncle Vernon. Not being Uncle Vernon is an important quality to have.

What does he do, what does he say—

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hagrid, but we don't have any tea."

The man throws his head back and starts laughing, and it's the kind of warm, happy laughter that tends to make people laugh along, even when they're not sure what it's about.

...that's probably good?

The laughter eventually dies down, and he looks at Victor with a smile. "Anyway—Victor, a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here—I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulls a slightly squashed box.

Victor blinks at the slightly squashed box.

"Go on, take it," he says, offering the box.

...okay.

He accepts the box and tentatively opens it.

It contains an enormous, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Victor written on it in green icing.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hagrid, this is lovely," he says earnestly.

He beams. "What about that tea then, eh?" he says, rubbing his hands together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

His eyes fall on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it and he snorts. He gets up from the couch and bends down over the fireplace; they can't see what he's doing but when he draws back a second later, there's a roaring fire there. It fills the whole damp hut with flickering light and Victor can feel the warmth wash over him.

Wow.

But -

Things like this just don't happen to him. What's going on? Maybe this is like the day of the zoo trip, and it's all going to end horribly. He darts a glance at Uncle Vernon. As soon as the giant leaves... he doesn't know what will happen but he's sure it will be bad.

Vernon honestly looks terrified almost out of his trousers. He's decided huddling close to his family in a half-defiant stance is the best he can do.

Petunia is, oddly enough, the least scared of the lot, looking more concerned for her family than afraid of the man.

The giant sits back down on the sofa, which sags under his weight, and begins taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he takes a swig from before starting to make tea.

It's sort of fascinating. Victor wonders if he is allowed to eat his cake.

When the giant finally notices he hasn't actually eaten his cake he says, "I know it's not very pretty ter look at, but it's very tasty. Promise."

And at that Dudley twitches, leaning over to look at the cake and licking his lips.

"Don't touch any of that, Dudley."

The giant snorts.

Well. He wouldn't want to be insulting. He tries the cake.

It is tasty. He looks up at the giant with a tiny, tentative smile.

He's very happy Victor likes it.

Soon the hut is full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. He slides the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, and Dudley fidgets even more.

When they're done, he passes some to Victor.

"Oh - thank you very much," he says. The sausages are delicious. He'd suggest that the giant give some to Dudley, except that it seems likely to upset Uncle Vernon and he would really rather not upset Uncle Vernon any further.

"Yer quite welcome!"

Tiny smile.

"So! What's been happenin' ter yer letters?"

"They've been very upsetting to everyone and I think Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would like you to stop sending them," says Victor.

"Stop... sending? But how else are yeh gonna go ter Hogwarts?"

"What do you mean?"

"Yer eleven! Yer supposed ter be in school in a month!"

"I think Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia want to send me to a different school that doesn't send such frightening letters."

"Other school? But Hogwarts' the finest wizardin' school there is! What other school?"

"It's called Stonewall and it's not a wizarding school."

"What?" he asks, shocked. "Not a wizardin' school?"

"I - I don't think I understand why you want me to go to a wizarding school," he says. "Sorry."

"Because yer a wizard! Don't yeh wanna learn all that as yer parents did?"

"...My parents were wizards?"

"What?" he cries, jumping to his feet and turning to face the Dursleys.

Vernon squeals.

"Do you mean ter tell me," he growls at the Dursleys, "that this boy—this boy!—knows nothin' abou'—about ANYTHING?"

...oh dear.

"We couldn't just—tell him—encourage it—"

He whirls to face Victor again.

"But yeh must know about yer mom and dad," he says. "I mean, they're famous. You're famous."

He shakes his head hesitantly. "I'm sorry, I don't know anything about that," he says. "I just know that my mother was Aunt Petunia's sister and they died."

Supposedly they died in a car crash, but in light of this new information about wizards he's not even sure that's true anymore.

"DURSLEY!" He explodes again, turning to look at them. "So yeh've never told him nothin' at all? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An' you’ve kept it from him all these years?"

"We—we swore we would—we would never—"

He doesn't know what to do. He almost wants to try to help them somehow, but he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what he can say that won't get the giant angry at him.

He turns his back on them again and looks at Victor, his expression softening, then reaches inside a coat pocket to hand him the letter. "Well. I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter."

"...I don't think I understand this," he says, reading it carefully, exactly as though he's never seen it before.

"Hogwarts is the finest school o' wizardin' an' witchcraft yeh will find, and yeh's been enrolled there since yeh were a baby. Yer parents went there, and it's where ev'ry self-respectin' witch and wizard in Britain goes."

"I - I don't know anything about being a wizard," he says hesitantly. "Are you sure there hasn't been - some sort of mistake?"

"No one does, at yer age! That's what Hogwarts' fer!" he laughs. "But no, no mistake. Yeh's yer father and mother's son, alright. I delivered yeh to their door meself."

"What were they like?"

"Ah, that's a hard question alright," he says, sitting on the sofa again. "Yer mum... yer mum was one of the brightest witches I've met, an' I've met plenty. And she understood people, she coulda looked right into yeh and figured yeh out like not even yeh coulda. Yer dad was... a troublemaker, but I reckon she set him right."

"Were they good people?"

"Aye. The best. They're heroes."

He blinks several times, looking down at his partly-nibbled cake.

"I - I think I'd like to go to wizard school," he whispers.

His uncle finally finds enough courage to say something, walking up to them. "No! I do not allow it! He is not going to that, that freakhouse!"

The giant snorts. "I'd like ter see a great muggle like you stop him," he says.

Victor flinches slightly at his uncle's outburst.

"We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish," says Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!"

...so that's why they blame him whenever something strange happens - it is somehow his fault -

"Yeh can't stamp out magic from him," he scoffs. "That's like... like... like trying ter stamp out his skin or summat. It's part o' him."

He can't quite decide whether that's reassuring or terrifying.

"No matter, I do not allow him to go!"

He looks at Victor. "Yeh want ter go, right?"

He glances nervously at Uncle Vernon, and stares down at his cake, and nods a tiny nod.

"Haven’t I told you he's not going?" he hisses. "He's going to Stonewall High and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish—spell books and wands and—"

"If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop him," growls Hagrid. "Stop Sirius an' Dahlia Evans' son goin' ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name's been down ever since he was born."

"I - I do want to go," he says, edging away from Uncle Vernon slightly.

"See? He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won’t know himself. He'll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an' he'll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled—"

"I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!" yells Uncle Vernon. 

But he's finally gone too far. Hagrid seizes his umbrella and whirls it over his head.

"NEVER—" he thunders, "—INSULT—ALBUS—DUMBLEDORE—IN—FRONT—OF—ME!"

He brings the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley—there's a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal—

—and the next second, Dudley's dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turns his back on them, he reveals a curly pig's tail poking through a hole in his trousers. 

Victor takes a deep breath, and looks up at Hagrid.

"I don't think you should have done that," he says quietly.

He hides behind his mum and continues wailing.

And Uncle Vernon roars in anger, quickly rushing over to Dudley's side to pull him and Petunia to the other room—

—but she doesn't go. "Please undo that."

The giant... looks very ashamed. "Yer right. Shouldn'ta lost me temper... but I can't undo that."

Victor Evans looks a lot like his father. The shape of his face, his hazel eyes. There's no single feature you could pick out to connect him to his mother.

But the person looking up at Hagrid right now is definitely Dahlia's son.

"Is there anyone else who can?"

He looks down at his feet. "Mebbe. But, er... see, I'm not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin'. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an' get yer letters to yeh an' stuff—one o' the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job—but a muggle doctor should be able ter fix it."

"Can wizard doctors fix it better?"

"We are not letting any more—freaks anywhere near our son!" Uncle Vernon declares, and finally succeeds at pulling the rest of his family back into the other room, slamming the door shut after shooting one final fearful glance at the giant.

Victor looks down at his cake again. Whatever shade of his mother was present in him a minute ago, it's gone now.

"...sorry."

"What do I need to do to go to magic school? I don't think Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are going to help."

"Right!" He stands up. "We go ter London."

He carefully closes the box with the cake. "All right. Thank you for helping."

"Oh, I almost forgot—" From a pocket inside his overcoat he pulls an owl—a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl—a long quill, and a roll of parchment. He sits back down from a moment and, with his tongue between his teeth, scribbles a note that Victor can read upside down:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Given Victor his letter.
Taking him to buy his things tomorrow. Weather's horrible.
Hope you're Well.

Hagrid

He rolls up the note, gives it to the owl, which clamps it in its beak, goes to the door, and throws the owl out into the storm.

"Are yeh ready to go?"

"Yes. Is the owl going to be okay?"

"Aye, she'll be fine." He peers at the storm. "But we might not be... Might be better ter sleep here an' wait fer the storm to pass..."

"That sounds like a good idea," he agrees.

"Right, then!" He takes off his overcoat and offers it to Victor. "You can kip under that. Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."

"...okay. Thank you," he says, because it seems like it wouldn't be productive to ask him why there are dormice in his pockets. And the coat looks very warm. He curls up on the floor and nests in it and it is the warmest he's been since they got in the boat.

It is in fact very warm! And Hagrid does not take long to fall asleep.

Victor sleeps kind of astonishingly well, all things considered.

He will wake up to the sounds of an owl rapping on the window.

...okay.

He goes to the window and opens it.

It's a bright and clear day out, the storm having abated completely. The giant is still asleep on a collapsed sofa, snoring.

The owl swoops in and drops a newspaper it had been holding in its beak on top of Hagrid, who doesn't wake up. It then flutters onto the floor and begins to attack Hagrid's coat.

"Um, excuse me, Mr. Hagrid," says Victor, "but there's an owl attacking your coat."

"Pay him," Hagrid grunts into the sofa.

...

Victor approaches the coat and tries to start looking through its pockets.

Hagrid's coat seems to be made of nothing but pockets—bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags... there, a handful of strange-looking coins.

"Give him five Knuts," says Hagrid sleepily. 

Well - do any of these strange-looking coins have names on them?

Yes! The small bronze ones have 'Knut' written on them and the silver ones have 'Sickle' instead.

He counts out five Knuts. Now how does he go about giving them to the owl?

When it sees him counting coins it holds out its leg to show him a small leather pouch attached to it.

Well that's fairly straightforward. Okay. He pays the owl.

It bows its little owl head and takes off. Hagrid yawns loudly, sits up, and stretches. "Best be off, Victor, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school."

"Okay."

He draws himself up to his full height and stretches, loudly cracking his joints. "Yeh ready?"

He nods.

"Come on, then."

Hagrid steps out onto the rock. The sky's quite clear now and the sea gleams in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon hired is still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

Victor follows him.

He settles in the boat, and—

"Seems a shame ter row, though," he says, giving Victor a sideways look. "If I was ter—er—speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"

"I won't get you in trouble, I promise," he says seriously.

Hagrid pulls out the pink umbrella again, taps it twice on the side of the boat, and they speed off toward land.

Victor sits quietly.

"Summat on yer mind?"

...he blinks up at him. "Um..."

"It's all right if yeh don't wanna talk, jus' thought I should ask."

"I'm worried that I won't do well in magic school," he says.

That's not quite the biggest problem on his mind, but it's in the neighbourhood. And he doesn't want to say that he's pretty sure Uncle Vernon will turn him out of the house over this.

"Ah, yeh'll be a thumpin' good'un, I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be?"