After the first mysterious envelope delivered by an owl had been confiscated, unopened, from Harry, he couldn't help wondering if the owl and envelope might somehow be connected with his birthday wish from the day before. It had proved to be an unusual birthday, and the concept of an owl delivering post was equally unusual in Harry's experience.

Life had certainly changed for Harry since the first envelope's arrival. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had regarded it fearfully, especially after examining the impressive seal across the reverse-side flap. Harry didn't know why, but they seemed to blame him for the envelope's having been delivered in the first place, but he had no clue as to who might have sent it. If they were blaming him, he reasoned, then it must have something to do with his birthday wish. Right? It was the only unusual thing he'd done all week, wishing on the dinner candles...

And then, MORE envelopes had arrived. MORE and MORE and MORE... One or two at a time, then three or four, then dozens...

For the first two and a half weeks of August, Number 4 on Privet Drive was besieged by owls. Owls of all sorts. Owls of all sizes. Owls of all colors. Harry had only ever seen one owl before, and that one had been in an airy cage at the zoo on Dudley's birthday. Now, from the window of Dudley's second bedroom, which his aunt and uncle had inexplicably insisted that Harry move into, over Dudley's ear-splitting tantrums, Harry watched the soaring, swooping feathery flights arriving, envelopes in beak, and departing to return to their unknown source. He still wasn't quite certain why he got to move into the little bedroom, just that his relatives seemed convinced that "someone" was watching the house, although how that had anything to do with Harry remained as big a mystery to him as the owls themselves.

Finally, the fateful day arrived, when the skies darkened with the most incredible influx of owls yet, all descending ominously upon Number 4, and HUNDREDS of envelopes flooded into the house, through every possible aperture! Harry had ALMOST had an envelope for himself from the whirlwind of paper invading the lounge, but Uncle Vernon had wrenched it violently away before he could open the magnificent wax seal. As it was, the never-ending flood of mysterious letters, all addressed to Harry-first to his cupboard, then to the smallest bedroom-had apparently caused Uncle Vernon to snap that day.

Piling the family into the car, he drove hither and thither for five days, the length and breadth

of England, Wales, and Scotland. Wherever they paused in his mad dash cross country, another letter or ten would mysteriously arrive, perpetually addressed to Harry, and brutally destroyed by Vernon, whose eyes had begun to gleam with a hideous mad light. Even Petunia seemed to fear what her husband might do next, and she spent four tense nights at hotels and B&B's protectively clutching Dudley to her side, her trembling hand frantically smoothing his hair as she watched Vernon pace the room, her husband glaring daggers at Harry.

At last, on the evening of August 23, Vernon made arrangements to rent the use of a ramshackle shelter situated bizarrely on a barren rock protruding skyward from the sea five miles from the nearest shore. After ordering Petunia to stock up on a week's worth of groceries, bottled water, and other sundries, Vernon hired a boat to carry the four of them, plus their load of supplies to the Hut on the Rock, as the boatman called it. The boat rode low in the water, protesting the weight of the Dursley males and their food stocks. When they landed at the shallow edge of the rock, Vernon offloaded the boxes while Petunia ordered Harry to carry them up to the dilapidated stone-and-wood Hut whose weathered shutters creaked despairingly in the sea breeze.

After paying off the boatman, Vernon watched in satisfaction as the man and his companion motored away in the now-higher-riding boat, having left a second, less impressive craft moored to the Rock, in case the family needed to vacate the premises before the week was up. To Harry's eyes, the "escape" boat for "emergencies only" looked nearly as ramshackle as the Hut above. As dusk fell and the first boat disappeared shoreward into the gloom, Harry watched the mad light in his uncle's eyes brighten as he stroked his fingertips up and down the tall, slender box that he'd brought with him from Surrey.

"What's that you've got, Dad?" asked Dudley, also examining the long box standing on end next to his father.

"My shotgun, Dudders." Vernon smiled in such a way that Harry couldn't help but shudder. "Just let those ruddy owls find us out here, and I'll give them a surprise they'll never forget!"

Harry cringed as Vernon laughed loudly. Dudley joined in, begging to see the shotgun out of its box. "In due time, son. In due time. First, we'll have supper!" Father and son climbed the rough, rocky path to the hut while Harry stared after them in consternation.

Uncle Vernon was really planning to shoot the owls... Harry had heard the man threatening to do just that back on Privet Drive, but Aunt Petunia had dissuaded him, saying that there were laws about using firearms in the suburbs. But at the Hut on the Rock? No laws existed. Probably, nobody would even be able to hear the gunshots from shore...

"BOY!" Vernon's shout rang out from the Hut. "Get up here and help your aunt fix supper. Hurry up!"

The moon had barely peaked over the horizon, glinting silver atop the rippling waters, as Harry scurried up the uneven path under his uncle's watchful, gleaming gaze.

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From August 23 onwards...

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The following week settled into a pattern of sorts. Meals from tins and other non-perishables, Harry setting out paper plates and durable plastic cups on the scarred plank table. Tea from water heated in a large kettle hung above the flames in the stone fireplace. Vernon perched on the roof over the bedroom in the sagging loft-he had managed to pry several rotting boards loose from the underside of the roof and, grunting mightily with the effort, clambered up from the dresser which sat beneath the low part of the sloping ceiling.

BLAM!

"HA!"

Harry and Petunia cringed with every shot that Vernon fired off at an approaching owl, while Dudley stood on the dresser, his head sticking up through the ragged hole in the roof, begging to have a go with the shotgun.

So far, the owls seemed to have escaped injury, all but one. And even that one managed to fly away toward shore, although a bit unevenly, Harry noticed sadly. He hoped someone familiar with wildlife would find and help the injured owl. He thought the shot had only just grazed one of the noble bird's wings. The familiar envelope it bore had fluttered down to the sea and was quickly swamped by the foaming swells.

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August 28, 1991 (afternoon)

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BLAM!

"HA!"

"C'mon, Dad! Please! Please let me have a go!"

"Diddykins, darling, please don't go up on the roof," Petunia pleaded, grabbing her son's thick ankle. "You might fall off!"

Dudley jerked his leg impatiently. "Get off, Mum! I'm not going to fall! I just want to shoot the

owls!"

"Dudders, your mother is right," came Vernon's muffled voice from above. "You may practice shooting from the ground-er, the Rock-after lunch."

"Yay!" Dudley jumped up and down on the warped dresser in his excitement, causing the ancient wood to creak in distress.

It would serve him right if the dresser split in two, sending him crashing to the sagging floor, Harry thought sourly as he opened tins of beef stew and fruit, while Petunia sliced the bread.

Dudley's trainers thumped down the steep, slanting steps. He surveyed the table with disgust. "Stew AGAIN?" He made a gagging sound. "Mum, how long do we have to stay here? I want to go home! I want to eat REAL food. I want to sleep in my own bed! I want to watch the telly! There's NOTHING to do on this Rock but watch Dad shoot owls. And he always MISSES!"

Plopping down on the wooden bench on his side of the table, Dudley ignored the bench's ominous groan of protest and grabbed a thick slice of bread, slathering butter over it. "It's all HIS fault," he added darkly, pointing an accusing finger at Harry. "The owls keep coming because of HIM. Why do I have to suffer because of HIM?"

Petunia's lips tightened. Much tighter, Harry thought, and her mouth would disappear permanently. "Ask your father, Diddykins dear. This little-holiday-was all his idea."

"HOLIDAY!" Dudley nearly choked on the word through the mouthful of bread. "This isn't any kind of HOLIDAY! This-this-this just SUCKS!"

"Dudley!" shouted Vernon as he descended the rickety steps from the loft. "Language!"

"Sorry, Dad," mumbled the boy, poking at a meat cube in the fire-warmed stew. "But I HATE it here. And it's all HIS fault."

Vernon glared at Harry. "It certainly is."

Harry stood silently next to the outwards corner of the fireplace. He had an uneasy feeling that Vernon might decide to get physical, although that didn't happen too often.

"Vernon..." Apparently, Petunia had picked up on similar vibes from her husband. "Sit down and have some lunch, dear. There's some lovely stew, just off the fire." She set a plastic bowl of stew in front of him.

Vernon sat, picking up a slice of bread to butter.

"So, how long, Dad?" demanded Dudley. "How long are we gonna be on this dumb Rock?"

"Take heart, Dudders," said Vernon reassuringly. "We won't be here much longer. Have to see you off to Smeltings in a few days, remember?"

Dudley brightened in anticipation. "Tell me about Smeltings again, Dad. Tell me about your first day again."

Harry bit into his thin slice of unbuttered bread as he stood by the fireplace, listening to his uncle's thoroughly-boring tale for the umpteenth time. He kept hoping there would be a bit more stew left over this time. He didn't mind eating it cold from the can, just as long as-

BLAM!

Petunia screamed and Dudley fell over backwards off his bench as Vernon shot through the open window. Harry's saucer-sized green eyes spotted the most recent owl winging rapidly back toward shore.

"HA!" shouted Vernon, his own eyes blazing wildly. "Haven't had this much fun on holiday in years!"

Clutching one hand over her heart, Petunia used her other hand to help Dudley regain his seat, while Vernon reloaded the shotgun.

"Seems like the owls are fewer and farther between, doesn't it?" he remarked to no one in particular. "Remember that first night we were here, when I sat up all night long firing off shots? The moonlight made it easy to spot the buggers coming in toward the Hut. And I spent the entire next day shooting at the blasted pests. But I think they're finally getting the message. No more letters! Not here, not anywhere! A few more days, and we can go home."

"Gr-Great, Dad," said Dudley, still sounding a bit shaky after the unexpected shot through the window. "Can't wait to tell Piers and the other guys! They'll be green with envy-I know they've never gone on a shooting holiday!"

Vernon downed two more bowls of stew, three more slices of buttered bread, a tin of peach slices, and then he looked inquiringly at Petunia. "What's for dessert, my pet?"

"I have some of that coconut cake left, and there's also cherry pie. Which would you like?"

"Some of each," Vernon replied, followed by Dudley's quick echo.

Petunia nodded, then gestured to Harry, who moved to the dwindling stack of bakery boxes which had contained cakes and pies of all descriptions. Each was carefully wrapped in foil to prevent their contents from going stale in the sea air, and Harry unwrapped the top box containing the remains of the coconut cake. He served up large wedges of the cake, then added

a generous slice of pie to each paper plate, carrying them to serve to Vernon and Dudley.

"Would you like dessert, Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked politely.

"I'll make do with part of another tin of peaches," she replied, "but you may have all of the leftovers," she added in a low voice. "They'll just go bad without refrigeration."

"Thank you, Aunt Petunia."

"You'd better wait until Vernon and Dudley go out," she said quietly, watching as Vernon lovingly stroked the length of the shotgun barrel.

Harry nodded. He repressed a smile. He'd have stew. Maybe another slice of bread. He might even be able to sneak a bit of butter. Tinned peaches-and the sweet syrup. And there was a sliver of coconut cake and at least a third of the cherry pie left. Not that he'd eat all of the pie. But he could have a slice. This would be almost as good as his birthday feast, which had taken place twenty-eight days ago. Two GOOD meals in less than a month? Unprecedented! And this was only lunch-perhaps he could enjoy a few extra leftovers from supper as well?

Vernon rose from the table and, trailed by Dudley, meandered down the rocky path to the shoreward side of the Rock. Thus far, no owls had ever approached from the seaward side, so he faced shoreward and gave Dudley instructions on the safe handling of a shotgun.

"I'll be lying down upstairs," Petunia muttered. "I'm getting a migraine."

Harry affected a concerned expression. "I hope you'll feel better soon, Aunt Petunia."

"Hmphh."

After she'd climbed the rickety, sloping steps, Harry quickly warmed the leftover stew in a saucepan over the fire in the fireplace and buttered a thick slice of bread before carefully wrapping the remaining bread in protective foil. Stew tasted so much better when it was hot! And bread with butter tasted heavenly. He ate quickly, devouring the remaining peach slices and drinking the sweet syrup directly from the tin. Already feeling full, he forced himself to finish off the coconut cake, and he even squeezed a small portion of cherry pie into his straining stomach. Who knew when another opportunity to eat his fill would come again?

BLAM!

Upstairs, Petunia groaned, and the bed creaked as if she had turned over to pull a pillow over her aching head.

BLAM!

Harry heard Dudley crow in triumph. Collecting the dirty paper plates and plastic bowls, Harry shoved them into an empty box. Vernon had originally ordered him to throw trash into the sea, but Harry had objected, suggesting that someone might decide to arrest or fine Vernon, if the trash could be traced back to the Hut on the Rock. "That boatman got a good look at all this stuff, Uncle Vernon. He knows we're here. And this stuff will float..."

"All right, boy! Just keep the trash out of our way!" Vernon had shouted in the end.

Personally, Harry didn't care about any of his relatives being arrested and fined-he just didn't want to risk harming the sea life with their litter. Still, he felt happy to be able to dispose of the trash in the cardboard boxes that had originally held their food supplies.

Which had been seriously depleted, he noted. Even though Petunia had deliberately overbought, knowing Vernon's and Dudley's appetites, the majority of food containers had already been emptied. Harry estimated they might have two days' supplies left, at the most. There was no way Vernon would stay here after the food ran out. At long last, after more than a week on this forsaken Rock, they'd be returning to Surrey. Having slept on the rough wooden floor night after night, Harry was actually looking forward to the lumpy bed in Dudley's erstwhile second bedroom.

BLAM!

"Yah!"

At least it would be quieter in Little Whinging.