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 didn't belong to the library, 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.
"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed
through the door. "Who's writing to me?"
"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling.
He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to
Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting
stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive --'"
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