Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police!

Diddy, darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?’

In all the kerfuffle nobody seemed to have noticed Harry, which suited him perfectly. He managed to slip inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door and, while the Dursleys made their noisy progress down the hall towards the kitchen, Harry moved carefully and quietly towards the stairs.

‘Who did it, son? Give us names. We'll get them, don't worry.’

‘Shh! He's trying to say something, Vernon! What is it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!’

Harry's foot was on the bottom-most stair when Dudley found his voice.

‘Him.’

Harry froze, foot on the stair, face screwed up, braced for the explosion.

‘BOY! COME HERE!’

With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to follow the Dursleys.

The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green and clammy-looking. Uncle Vernon was standing in front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through tiny, narrowed eyes.

‘What have you done to my son?’ he said in a menacing growl.

‘Nothing,’ said Harry, knowing perfectly well that Uncle Vernon wouldn't believe him.

‘What did he do to you, Diddy?’ Aunt Petunia said in a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of Dudley's leather jacket. ‘Was it—was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use—his thing?’

Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.

‘I didn't!’ Harry said sharply, as Aunt Petunia let out a wail and Uncle Vernon raised his fists. ‘I didn't do anything to him, it wasn't me, it was—’

But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the top of Uncle Vernon's head, it soared across the kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying in its beak at Harry's feet, turned gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top of the fridge, then zoomed outside again and off across the garden.

‘OWLS!’ bellowed Uncle Vernon, the well-worn vein in his temple pulsing angrily as he slammed the kitchen window shut. ‘OWLS AGAIN! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY MORE OWLS IN MY HOUSE!’

But Harry was already ripping open the envelope and pulling out the letter inside, his heart pounding somewhere in the region of his Adam's apple.

Dear Mr. Potter,