The letterbox at number four Privet Drive is about to get absolutely lit.
As we all now know, funny business follows little old Harry Potter around. To be fair, the boy’s oblivious to the fact that he was literally dropped off at his aunt and unc’s by a half giant riding a humungous motorbike, and that might be something to do with all this weird shit that’s going on around him. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he was number 5 that was experimented on at Hawkins lab, but that would be too much of a worldly cross-over and I don’t think I’d like to see Harry go up against a god forsaken demogorgon.
Anyway, digression into the world of Stranger Things aside, chapter three opens our eyes just a little further to the world of the weird. Unfortunately for Harry, his dalliance with the resident boa constrictor at London Zoo had earned him his longest punishment yet, and so we meet up in the summer holidays after Dudders has smashed in most of his thirty-nine bday gifts. Having exhausted his material wares, Duds et al resort to the rather fucking awful sport of Harry Hunting, which I’m not sure is entirely legal.
But wait: Is that a light I see out yonder window in the near future? Is Harry finally going to have a bit of fucking luck and escape this family of morons for a while? Why yes, big D is off to become a bigger wanker of Etonian magnitude at Smeltings, while Stonewall High will become Harry’s refuge. Well thank the lord for that, ey, stories do have happy endings.
Apparently this isn’t the end of the tale, though. Petunia — being the cheap old bitch that she is — decides against forking out for a uniform for Harry, opting instead to do a dodgy dye job on some of Dudley’s old shite. Meanwhile, Dudley himself is parading around dressed like a pig at the circus, which all sounds very comical until you realise he’s secretly beating Harry with a stick (ABUSE). Perhaps life at Stonewall would just be the next ridicule in the tale of The Boy Who Lived. Alas, earwax.
Anyway, you won’t fucking believe what arrives in the mail for Harry on that very morning that his new uniform was being mulled like a fine Christmassy cider in the sink. It’s a letter. A letter in green ink; one that’s addressed to the very prison he calls home. Funny fucking business if I ever did hear it. Who would be writing to Harry? Besides Childline when he eventually reports the severe mistreatment, of course.
Hindsight is a beautiful thing, they say. They also say you should open letters addressed in green ink immediately without question or hesitation, but clearly Harry isn’t hearing whoever “they” are, and hence waltzes back into the kitchen clutching the bastard thing. Of course, as Harry is not allowed any scrap of human right or legitimacy, unc Vern the big bad bastard swipes this very important magical document for himself. Greedy little swine.
Now, funny business is about to crawl back into the rhetoric here. Either uncle Vernon has just swallowed a rotten egg at brekky (which is highly likely), or something about Harry’s letter has shit him up. His face literally turns the greyish white of old porridge, which nobody wants, do they?
Whatever lay within those pages of parchment made uncle V sick enough to boot both Harry and his prized pig of a son out into the hallway, so I think we can assume at this point that it’s something pretty major. Through the crack beneath the door we learn that “they” could be watching the house because “they” know where Harry’s sleeping — this is starting to sound like some illuminati kinda shit so I’m thinking that Harry should quit while he’s ahead.
Disastrously thankfully for us all, uncle Vernon “is not having one in the house” and all this “dangerous nonsense” is to be stamped out, which sounds a little intriguing and a lot like funny business. What we do know, though, is that Harry is to receive an upgrade on his cupboard dwellings — The Boy Who Lived is moving on up in the world and taking over Dudley’s second bedroom! What a monumental win. It’s a shame the bedroom doesn’t come with a letter of its own…
Much to my delight, chapter three continues with Mr Dursley losing his fucking mind over the post. Of course, the very next day there’s letters penned in green that are addressed to Mr Harry Potter at his new address, The Smallest Bedroom. Vern swiftly takes care of these in a continued effort against the mysterious “they” with the proclivity for green ink. The nasty old fool even starts kipping by the door to intercept the post, like a certified mad man.
Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?
Things go from mad to complete fucking shit-show in a matter of days, and after boarding up the entire house and ripping off half of his once-impressive moustache, Vern carts Petunia and the kids off to some shanty hotel, where *shock, horror* a pile of letters turns up at the front desk. I do hope the culprit was using sustainably sourced paper — it’s no wonder we’re on the brink of environmental disaster if this is how people get in touch with each other in this world.
As this chapter descends into utter delirium, Mr Dursley goes on a mad one and buys himself a shiny new shotgun, shipping the fam out to a rock in the sea, like only the sanest of uncles are warrant to do. While Dudley shits his pants about not being able to watch telly for one whole night (actually relatable), Harry begins the countdown to his big 11th birthday whilst trying to sleep on a cold, hard floor underneath the thinnest blanket.
As the big 1-1 rolls in, things are about to get a whole lot madder, ’cause BOOM bang clap wallop, someone’s at the door.