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stening　to　the　news　tosh！　You　know　perfectly　well　that　your　lot　…　
　　　
　　　'Careful；　Vernon！'　breathed　Aunt　Petunia；　and　Uncle　Vernon　lowered　his　voice　so　that　Harry　could　barely　hear　him；'…　that　your　lot　don't　get　on　our　news！'　
　　　
　　　'That's　all　you　know；'　said　Harry。
　　　The　Dursleys　goggled　at　him　for　a　few　seconds；　then　Aunt　Petunia　said；　'You're　a　nasty　little　liar。　What　are　all　those　…'　she；　too；　lowered　her　voice　so　that　Harry　had　to　lip…read　the　next　word；　…　owls　doing　if　they're　not　bringing　you　news？'
　　　
　　　'Aha！'　said　Uncle　Vernon　in　a　triumphant　whisper。　'Get　out　of　that　one；　boy！　As　if　we　didn't　know　you　get　all　your　news　from　those　pestilential　birds！'
　　　
　　　Harry　hesitated　for　a　moment。　It　cost　him　something　to　tell　the　truth　this　time；　even　though　his　aunt　and　uncle　could　not　possibly　know　how　bad　he　felt　at　admitting　it。
　　　'The　owls：　aren't　bringing　me　news；'　he　said　tonelessly。
　　　'I　don't　believe　it；'　said　Aunt　Petunia　at　once。
　　　'No　more　do　I；'　said　Uncle　Vernon　forcefully。
　　　'We　know　you're　up　to　something　funny；'　said　Aunt　Petunia。
　　　'We're　not　stupid；　you　know；'　said　Uncle　Vernon。
　　　'Well；　that's　news　to　me；'　said　Harry；　his　temper　rising；　and　before　the　Dursleys　could　call　him　back；　he　had　wheeled　about；　crossed　the　front　lawn；　stepped　over　the　low　garden　wall　and　was　striding　off　up　the　street。
　　　He　was　in　trouble　now　and　he　knew　it。　He　would　have　to　face　his　aunt　and　uncle　later　and　pay　the　price　for　his　rudeness；　but　he　did　not　care　very　much　just　at　the　moment；　he　had　much　more　pressing　matters　on　his　mind。
　　　Harry　was　sure　the　cracking　noise　had　been　made　by　someone　Apparating　or　Disapparating。　It　was　exactly　the　sound　Dobby　the　house…elf　made　when　he　vanished　into　thin　air。　Was　it　possible　that　Dobby　was　here　in　Privet　Drive？　Could　Dobby　be　following　him　right　at　this　very　moment？　As　this　thought　occurred　he　wheeled　around　and　stared　back　down　Privet　Drive；　but　it　appeared　to　be　pletely　deserted　and　Harry　was　sure　that　Dobby　did　not　know　how　to　bee　invisible。
　　　He　walked　on；　hardly　aware　of　the　route　he　was　taking；　for　he　had　pounded　these　streets　so　often　lately　that　his　feet　carried　him　to　his　favourite　haunts　automatically。　Every　few　steps　he　glanced　back　over　his　shoulder。　Someone　magical　had　been　near　him　as　he　lay　among　Aunt　Petunia's　dying　begonias；　he　was　sure　of　it。　Why　hadn't　they　spoken　to　him；　why　hadn't　they　made　contact；　why　were　they　hiding　now？　
　　　
　　　And　then；　as　his　feeling　of　frustration　peaked；　his　certainty　leaked　away。
　　　Perhaps　it　hadn't　been　a　magical　sound　after　all。　Perhaps　he　was　so　desperate　for　the　tiniest　sign　of　contact　from　the　world　to　which　he　belonged　that　he　was　simply　overreacting　to　perfectly　ordinary　noises。　Could　he　be　sure　it　hadn't　been　the　sound　of　something　breaking　inside　a　neighbour's　house？　
　　　
　　　Harry　felt　a　dull；　sinking　sensation　in　his　stomach　and　before　he　knew　it　the　feeling　of　hopelessness　that　had　plagued　him　all　summer　rolled　over　him　once　again。
　　　Tomorrow　morning　he　would　be　woken　by　the　alarm　at　five　o'clock　so　he　could　pay　the　owl　that　delivered　the　Daily　Prophet　…but　was　there　any　point　continuing　to　take　it？　Harry　merely　glanced　at　the　front　page　before　throwing　it　aside　these　days；　when　the　idiots　who　ran　the　paper　finally　realised　that　Voldemort　was　back　it　would　be　headline　news；　and　that　was　the　only　kind　Harry　cared　about。
　　　If　he　was　lucky；　there　would　also　be　owls　carrying　letters　from　his　best　friends　Ron　and　Hermione；　though　any　expectation　he'd　had　that　their　letters　would　bring　him　news　had　long　since　been　dashed。
　　　We　can't　say　much　about　you…know…what；　obviously：　We've　been　told　not　to　say　anything　important　in　case　our　letters　go　astray：　We're　quite　busy　but　I　can't　give　you　details　here：　There's　a　fair　amount　going　on；　we'll　tell　you　everything　when　we　see　you：　
　　　
　　　But　when　were　they　going　to　see　him？　Nobody　seemed　too　bothered　with　a　precise　date。　Hermione　had　scribbled　I　expect　we'll　be　seeing　you　quite　soon　inside　his　birthday　card；　but　how　soon　was　soon？　As　far　as　Harry　could　tell　from　the　vague　hints　in　their　letters；　Hermione　and　Ron　were　in　the　same　place；　presumably　at　Ron's　parents'　house。　He　could　hardly　bear　to　think　of　the　pair　of　them　having　fun　at　The　Burrow　when　he　was　stuck　in　Privet　Drive。　In　fact；　he　was　so　angry　with　them　he　had　thrown　away；　unopened；　the　two　boxes　of　Honeydukes　chocolates　they'd　sent　him　for　his　birthday。　He'd　regretted　it　later；　after　the　wilted　salad　Aunt　Petunia　had　provided　for　dinner　that　night。
　　　And　what　were　Ron　and　Hermione　busy　with？　Why　wasn't　he；　Harry；　busy？　Hadn't　he　proved　himself　capable　of　handling　much　more　than　them？　Had　they　all　forgotten　what　he　had　done？　Hadn't　it　been　he　who　had　entered　that　graveyard　and　watched　Cedric　being　murdered；　and　been　tied　to　that　tombstone　and　nearly　killed？　
　　　
　　　Don't　think　about　that；　Harry　told　himself　sternly　for　the　hundredth　lime　that　summer。　It　was　bad　enough　that　he　kept　revisiting　the　graveyard　in　his　nightmares；　without　dwelling　on　it　in　his　waking　moments　too。
　　　He　turned　a　corner　into　Magnolia　Crescent；　halfway　along　he　passed　the　narrow　alleyway　down　the　side　of　a　garage　where　he　had　first　clapped　eyes　on　his　godfather。　Sirius；　at　least；　seemed　to　understand　how　Harry　was　feeling。　Admittedly；　his　letters　were　just　as　empty　of　proper　news　as　Ron　and　Hermione's；　but　at　least　they　contained　words　of　caution　and　consolation　instead　of　tantalising　hints：　
　　　
　　　I　know　this　must　be　frustrating　for　you：　Keep　your　nose　clean　and　everything　will　be　OK：　Be　careful　and　don't　do　anything　rash：　
　　　
　　　Well；　thought　Harry；　as　he　crossed　Magnolia　Crescent；　turned　into　Magnolia　Road　and　headed　towards　the　darkening　play　park；　he　had　（by　and　large）　done　as　Sirius　advised。　He　had　at　least　resisted　the　temptation　to　tie　his　trunk　to　his　broomstick　and　set　off　for　The　Burrow　by　himself。　In　fact；　Harry　thought　his　behaviour　had　been　very　good　considering　how　frustrated　and　angry　he　felt　at　being　stuck　in　Privet　Drive　so　long；　reduced　to　hiding　in　flowerbeds　in　the　hope　of　hearing　something　that　might　point　to　what　Lord　Voldemort　was　doing。　Nevertheless；　it　was　quite　galling　to　be　told　not　to　be　rash　by　a　man　who　had　served　twelve　years　in　the　wizard　prison；　Azkaban；　escaped；　attempted　to　mit　the　murder　he　had　been　convicted　for　in　the　first　place；　then　gone　on　the　run　with　a　stolen　Hippogriff。
　　　Harry　vaulted　over　the　locked　park　gate　and　set　off　across　the　parched　grass。　The　park　was　as　empty　as　the　surrounding　streets。　When　he　reached　the　swings　he　sank　on　to　the　only　one　that　Dudley　and　his　friends　had　not　yet　managed　to　break；　coiled　one　arm　around　the　chain　and　stared　moodily　at　the　ground。　He　would　not　be　able　to　hide　in　the　Dursleys'　flowerbed　again。　Tomorrow；　he　would　have　to　think　of　some　fresh　way　of　listening　to　the　news。　In　the　meantime；　he　had　nothing　to　look　forward　to　but　another　restless；　disturbed　night；　because　even　when　he　escaped　the　nightmares　about　Cedric　he　had　unsettling　dreams　about　long　dark　corridors；　all　finishing　in　dead　ends　and　locked　doors；　which　he　supposed　had　something　to　do　with　the　trapped　feeling　he　had　when　he　was　awake。　Often　the　old　scar　on　his　forehead　prickled　unfortably；　but　he　did　not　fool　himself　that　Ron　or　Hermione　or　Sirius　would　find　that　very　interesting　any　more。　In　the　past；　his　scar　hurting　had　warned　that　Voldemort　was　getting　stronger　again；　but　now　that　Voldemort　was　back　they　would　probably　remind　him　that　its　regular　irritation　was　only　to　be　expected：　nothing　to　worry　about：　old　news：　
　　　
　　　The　injustice　of　it　all　welled　up　inside　him　so　that　he　wanted　to　yell　with　fury。　If　it　hadn't　been　for　him；　nobody　would　even　have　known　Voldemort　was　back！　And　his　reward　was　to　be　stuck　in　Little　Whinging　for　four　solid　weeks；　pletely　cut　off　from　the　magical　world；　reduced　to　squatting　among　dying　begonias　so　that　he　could　hear　about　water…skiing　budgerigars！　How　could　Dumbledore　have　forgotten　him　so　easily？　Why　had　Ron　and　Hermione　got　together　without　inviting　him　along；　too？　How　much　longer　was　he　supposed　to　endure　Sirius　telling　him　to　sit　tight　and　be　a　good　boy；　or　resist　the　temptation　to　write　to　the　stupid　Daily　Prophet　and　point　out　that　Voldemort　had　returned？　These　furious　thoughts　whirled　around　in　Harry's　head；　and　his　insides　writhed　with　anger　as　a　sultry；　velvety　night　fell　around　him；　the　air　full　of　the　smell　of　warm；　dry　grass；　and　the　only　sound　that　of　the　low　grumble　of　traffic　on　the　road　beyond　the　park　railings。
　　　He　did　not　know　how　long　he　had　sat　on　the　swing　before　the　sound　of　voices　interrupted　his　musings　and　he　looked　up。　The　street　lamps　from　the　surrounding　roads　were　casting　a　misty　glow　strong　enough　to　silhouette　a　group　of　people　making　their　way　across　the　park。　One　of　them　was　singing　a　loud；　crude　song。　The　others　were　laughing。　A　soft　ticking　noise　came　from　several　expensive　racing　bikes　that　they　were　wheeling　along。
　　　Harry　knew　who　those　people　were。　The　figure　in　front　was　unmistakeably　his　cousin；　Dudley　Dursley；　wending　his　way　home；　acpanied　by　his　faithful　gang。
　　　Dudley　was　as　vast　as　ever；　but　a　year's　hard　dieting　and　the　discovery　of　a　new　talent　had　wrought　quite　a　change