H.P:the Difference Between Brothers?

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both demanding their breakfast. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual, and Dudley banged his Smeltings stick, which he was apparently going to carry everywhere, on the table. Harry snagged a piece of bread off the table and retreated to the corner like he did most mornings.

Midway through breakfast, they heard the click of the letter-box.

"Get the post, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it," Dudley said around his eggs.

"Get the post, boy."

Harry had to go around Dudley to get out of the room, and had to dodge the Smeltings stick on his way.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was holidaying on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill and – a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives – he wasn't allowed to belong to the library he sometimes escaped to, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back.

Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Mr H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounding a large letter 'H'.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter-bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Without thinking, Harry went back to the kitchen, letter in hand, staring at it in disbelief. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down and slowly began to open the yellow envelope. Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust and flipped over the postcard.

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk …"

"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon.

"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it.

His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the greyish white of old porridge.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach.

Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness – Vernon!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room.

Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smeltings stick.

"I want to read that letter," he said loudly.

"I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn't move.

"I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted, damn the consequences.

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took Harry by the scruff of his neck, threw him into his cupboard, and slammed the lock into place. A moment later, Dudley's whining got louder, as he too was thrown out of the kitchen.Morgan slithered up to him, and coiled into his lap. She didn't say a thing, just offered him comfort. He really should have thought before taking the letter into the kitchen. It was just such a shocking thing.

Letting his head fall against the thin wall, he could hear a bit of what they were talking about.

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, 'look at the address – how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?'

"Watching – spying – might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.

"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? James said –"

They both went quiet for a moment, then…

"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer … yes, that's best … we won't do anything …"

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.

"But –"

'I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?'

"James — "

"Petunia!"

They went silent after that. A few minutes later, Harry heard the front door open and close, twice. Both Uncle Vernon and Dudley had left for the day.

A little while later, Aunt Petunia let him out.

"Where's my letter?" he asked as soon as he was standing in the hallway. "Who's writing to me?"

It was always better, if he had to ask a question, to ask Aunt Petunia. She was much less likely to hit him or deny him meals than Uncle Vernon. He'd take extra chores any day.

"No one. It was addressed to you by mistake," she said shortly. "Vernon burned it."

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily. "It had my cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" she screeched at him.

A beat passed, as they stared at one another. They both knew she was lying, but he had just been released from weeks inside his cupboard. He wouldn't rise to the bait.

She huffed and glared at him. "Gather your things," she said. "Then go upstairs. And stay there."