Every day this summer had been the same: the tension, the expectation, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension again. He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the brilliant blue sky. If anything had happened, it would surely have been the first item on the news death and destruction were more important than stranded holidaymakers. 'Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers' strike reaches its second week-' 'Give 'em a lifelong siesta, I would,' snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader's sentence, but no matter: outside in the flowerbed, Harry's stomach seemed to unclench. Perhaps tonight-after a month of waiting-would be the night. The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o'clock news reached Harry's ears and his stomach turned over. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere he and his gang spent every evening vandalising the play park, smoking on street corners and throwing stones at passing cars and children.
They had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley. ' Harry suppressed a snort with difficulty. 'He's got so many little friends, he's so popular. 'Dudders out for tea?' 'At the Polkisses',' said Aunt Petunia fondly. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon's voice floated out of the window again. Figg had recently taken to asking him round for tea whenever she met him in the street. Harry was very pleased he was concealed behind the bush, as Mrs. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Figg, a batty cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit 'n' Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs. 'The window's open!' 'Oh-yes- sorry, dear. As if a normal boy cares what's on the news- Dudley hasn't got a clue what's going on doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it's not as if there'd be anything about his lot on our news-' 'Vernon, shh!' said Aunt Petunia. 'I'd like to know what he's really up to. Where is he, anyway?' 'I don't know,' said Aunt Petunia, unconcerned. 'Glad to see the boy's stopped trying to butt in. Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle, suddenly spoke. He was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth but, on the other hand, nobody was glaring at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room to watch television with his aunt and uncle. On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. In fact, the only way he would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living-room window and looked straight down into the flowerbed below.
Harry Potter's appearance did not endear him to the neighbours, who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was quite invisible to passers-by. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. The only person left outdoors was a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flowerbed outside number four.
#HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX WINDOWS#
Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing-for the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive.
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