Harry took a deep, steadying breath. His head was beginning to ache again. He wanted more than anything to get out of the kitchen, and away from the Dursleys.
“I did the Patronus Charm to get rid of the Dementors,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm. “It’s the only thing that works against them.”
“But what were Dementoids doing in Little Whinging?” said Uncle Vernon in an outraged tone.
“Couldn’t tell you,” said Harry wearily. “No idea.”
His head was pounding in the glare of the strip-lighting now. His anger was ebbing away. He felt drained, exhausted. The Dursleys were all staring at him.
“It’s you,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. “It’s got something to do with you, boy, I know it. Why else would they turn up here? Why else would they be down that alleyway? You’ve got to be the only—the only—” Evidently, he couldn’t bring himself to say the word “wizard.” “The only you-know-what for miles.”
“I don’t know why they were here.”
But at Uncle Vernon’s words, Harry’s exhausted brain had ground back into action. Why had the Dementors come to Little Whinging? How could it be coincidence that they had arrived in the alleyway where Harry was? Had they been sent? Had the Ministry of Magic lost control of the Dementors? Had they deserted Azkaban and joined Voldemort, as Dumbledore had predicted they would?
“These Demembers guard some weirdo prison?” asked Uncle Vernon, lumbering along in the wake of Harry’s train of thought.
“Yes,” said Harry.
If only his head would stop hurting, if only he could just leave the kitchen and get to his dark bedroom and think…
“Oho! They were coming to arrest you!” said Uncle Vernon, with the triumphant air of a man reaching an unassailable conclusion. “That’s it, isn’t it, boy? You’re on the run from the law!”
“Of course I’m not,” said Harry, shaking his head as though to scare off a fly, his mind racing now.
“Then why—?”
“He must have sent them,” said Harry quietly, more to himself than to Uncle Vernon.
“What’s that? Who must have sent them?”
“Lord Voldemort,” said Harry.
He registered dimly how strange it was that the Dursleys, who flinched, winced and squawked if they heard words like “wizard”, “magic” or “wand”, could hear the name of the most evil wizard of all time without the slightest tremor.
“Lord—hang on,” said Uncle Vernon, his face screwed up, a look of dawning comprehension coming into his piggy eyes. “I’ve heard that name… that was the one who—”
“Murdered my parents, yes,” Harry said dully.
“But he’s gone,” said Uncle Vernon impatiently, without the slightest sign that the murder of Harry’s parents might be a painful topic. “That giant bloke said so. He’s gone.”
“He’s back,” said Harry heavily.
It felt very strange to be standing here in Aunt Petunia’s surgically clean kitchen, beside the top-of-the-range fridge and the wide-screen television, talking calmly of Lord Voldemort to Uncle Vernon. The arrival of the Dementors in Little Whinging seemed to have breached the great, invisible wall that divided the relentlessly non-magical world of Privet Drive and the world beyond, Harry’s two lives had somehow become fused and everything had been turned upside-down; the Dursleys were asking for details about the magical world, and Mrs. Figg knew Albus Dumbledore; Dementors were soaring around Little Whinging, and he might never return to Hogwarts. Harry’s head throbbed more painfully.
“Back?” whispered Aunt Petunia.
She was looking at Harry as she had never looked at him before. And all of a sudden, for the very first time in his life, Harry fully appreciated that Aunt Petunia was his mother’s sister. He could not have said why this hit him so very powerfully at this moment. All he knew was that he was not the only person in the room who had an inkling of what Lord Voldemort being back might mean. Aunt Petunia had never in her life looked at him like that before. Her large, pale eyes (so unlike her sister’s) were not narrowed in dislike or anger, they were wide and fearful. The furious pretence that Aunt Petunia had maintained all Harry’s life—that there was no magic and no world other than the world she inhabited with Uncle Vernon—seemed to have fallen away.
“Yes,” Harry said, talking directly to Aunt Petunia now. “He came back a month ago. I saw him.”
Her hands found Dudley’s massive leather-clad shoulders and clutched them.
“Hang on,” said Uncle Vernon, looking from his wife to Harry and back again, apparently dazed and confused by the unprece-dented understanding that seemed to have sprung up between them. “Hang on. This Lord Voldything’s back, you say.”
“Yes.”
“The one who murdered your parents.”
“Yes.”
“And now he’s sending Dismembers after you?”
“Looks like it,” said Harry.
“I see,” said Uncle Vernon, looking from his white-faced wife to Harry and hitching up his trousers. He seemed to be swelling, his great purple face stretching before Harry’s eyes. “Well, that settles it,” he said, his shirt front straining as he inflated himself, “you can get out of this house, boy!”
“What?” said Harry.
“You heard me—OUT!” Uncle Vernon bellowed, and even Aunt Petunia and Dudley jumped. “OUT! OUT! I should’ve done this years ago! Owls treating the place like a rest home, puddings exploding, half the lounge destroyed, Dudley’s tail, Marge bobbing around on the ceiling and that flying Ford Anglia—OUT! OUT! You’ve had it! You’re history! You’re not staying here if some loony’s after you, you’re not endangering my wife and son, you’re not bringing trouble down on us. If you’re going the same way as your useless parents, I’ve had it! OUT!”
Harry stood rooted to the spot. The letters from the Ministry, Mr. Weasley and Sirius were all crushed in his left hand. Don’t leave the house again, whatever you do. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE’S HOUSE.
“You heard me!” said Uncle Vernon, bending forwards now, his massive purple face coming so close to Harry’s, he actually felt flecks of spit hit his face. “Get going! You were all keen to leave half an hour ago! I’m right behind you! Get out and never darken our doorstep again! Why we ever kept you in the first place, I don’t know, Marge was right, it should have been the orphanage. We were too damn soft for our own good, thought we could squash it out of you, thought we could turn you normal, but you’ve been rotten from the beginning and I’ve had enough—owls!”
The fifth owl zoomed down the chimney so fast it actually hit the floor before zooming into the air again with a loud screech. Harry raised his hand to seize the letter, which was in a scarlet envelope, but it soared straight over his head, flying directly at Aunt Petunia, who let out a scream and ducked, her arms over her face. The owl dropped the red envelope on her head, turned, and flew straight back up the chimney.
Harry darted forwards to pick up the letter, but Aunt Petunia beat him to it.
“You can open it if you like,” said Harry, “but I’ll hear what it says anyway. That’s a Howler.”
“Let go of it, Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “Don’t touch it, it could be dangerous!”
“It’s addressed to me,” said Aunt Petunia in a shaking voice. “It’s addressed to me, Vernon, look! Mrs. Petunia Dursley, The Kitchen, Number Four, Privet Drive—
She caught her breath, horrified. The red envelope had begun to smoke.