For four days, Number Four, Privet Drive, had been under siege.
Not by anything immense, of course.
The Dursleys were not important enough for that.
Their invader was far simpler, yet restless.
And judging by Vernon Dursley's declining sanity, far more effective.
On the first morning it began like a mild inconvenience.
Vernon had the paper and Dudley had the television remote, and Petunia moved around the kitchen preparing breakfast.
And Harry was sitting quietly at the table with them when some letters fell through the letterbox and came to rest on the mat.
Harry was asked to pick them, and for his surprise, one of them was addressed to him. But before the boy could even get a proper hold of the content, Vernon torn it apart with the speed of a man extinguishing a fire.
All he could do was try to argue, but Harry knew it would be for nothing.
That was Day One.
Day Two proved that whatever force wanted to reach the boy had no interest in subtlety.
Letters slipped under doors, found their way into laundered shirts, and appeared on windowsills where they could be shoved into curtains whenever they could.
Vernon burned them all in the sink, through clenched teeth.
He nailed the letterbox. He propped jars against windows. He announced loudly that the matter was closed, because denial is one of the ways humans try to find a solution.
Day Three was… unexpectedly creative.
A lot of letters, literally a lot, appeared inside the morning eggs, delivered by a bewildered milkman who simply wanted his shift to end.
Petunia shredded each parchment in her food processor. Vernon made furious calls to the post office, the milk company, and anyone else unlucky enough to pick up the phone.
Day Four, Sunday arrived with false optimism. It carried a confidence that was both brave and ridiculous. "No post on Sundays," Vernon declared before breakfast, likely believing that today would a break.
It was not.
The chimney disagreed as the fireplace became a poor fountain for envelopes, which fell in a gentle, terrible cascade scattering across the kitchen floor like parchment hail.
Petunia stood in the middle of it and did what she was ought to do... manage.
All four of them, Vernon, dudley, herself and the house.
Vernon, whose reserves of composure had been running dry these last days, finally ran out of tape to plaster over his unease. That was the moment his grip on reality loosened decisively
He was stressing as if there was no tomorrow. And this stress resulted in some hurried decisions. So much, that his wife whom he regarded oh so greatly had no idea either.
Vernon went from nailing letterboxes to packing the family into the car.
He did not speak more than necessary. Any break in the concentration would have only joltled the fragile structure of his decisions.
Petunia sat with her grip on Dudley, Dudley already annoyed at having his morning interrupted, and Harry seated where children sit where he cannot be seen.
Vernon drove without direction, muttering at every street sign as if everything and everyone personally offended him.
Hours passed.
Roads blurred together.
Harry watched the world move by in gray streaks.
He had no idea where they were going, and to be fair neither did Vernon.
Near evening, he made his choice and the road carried them farther from shopfronts and streetlamps and into a coastal landscape far away from the noise of the mainland... and maybe Vernon hoped from the letters as well.
A rock in the middle of the sea.
A hut that looked as though it had been abandoned by better storms.
If the Dursleys had wanted to disappear, which they did.
They might have chosen the right place to do it. A location so miserable that even letters would pity them and stay away.
Or so Vernon thought, but the phenomenon he was running from was not that simple to deceive.
And thus the logic was flawed, naturally.
But the man was exhausted, and bad decisions become easier when one is tired.
Wind tore at their coats.
Rain crawled down their necks.
By the time they reached the rock, the sky had surrendered entirely to the storm.
The hut was worse inside and could not pretend to be something else.
Damp walls.
Two rooms.
A fireplace that refused to cooperate.
Vernon provided "rations," which turned out to be chips and bananas, a choice that said more about him than anything else.
The children ate as children do, fast.
Well, atleast Dudley did.
Petunia arranged blankets somehow trying to help her husband as much as she can.
Night fell hard.
The small noises of human lives amplified in the hut.
Dudley's heavy breathing, the scrape of a spoon, a blanket moving etc.
Outside, the weather stepped up its pace.
Rain thudded.
Wind moaned.
The clock crept toward midnight.
Harry lay awake on the floor, feeling cold that was too much for a child and watching water creep in through the cracks.
The storm intensified.
Thunder rolled like distant stones shifting.
When Dudley's watch showed ten minutes until midnight, Harry realized he was nearly eleven.
He doubted anyone would acknowledge it. His birthday was not something that interested the Dudleys.
He watched the hands of the clock move, counted the minutes down in the practiced way of children.
Ten minutes to twelve,
and the storm gathered itself into a presence, a weight that pressed against the timbers.
At three minutes,
it sounded like the sea arguing for attention.
At two minutes something scraped very close to the wood.
At one minute to midnight, everything breathed a little quieter, as if it were waiting for a curtain to rise.
Then,
BOOM.
The whole shack shuddered.
Wood flew inward and so did the rain, the wind, and even the night.
The gate fell down.
Dudley woke with a scream.
Petunia bolted upright.
Vernon stumbled in, gripping the rifle like a lifeline.
"Who's there?" he shouted, voice cracking. "I warn you, I am armed!"
A giant filled the doorway.
And that is where the night truly began.
The Dursleys had spent four days trying to outrun a letter.
They were about to learn the sender had a much better sense of direction.
And a much better way to deliver those letters to the rightful person.