Asoiaf/GoT Series

Asoiaf/GoT Series

The Golden Rose (Tyrion Lannister x Tyrell Reader)

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙍𝙤𝙨𝙚 (Tyrion Lannister x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapters

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚: 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝘼𝙙𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙨

"Three, two, one,"

The sound of the mailman's scream reached Harry's ear. The black-haired boy smirked in delight, as he and his two laughing siblings stuck their heads through the bushes of their home, watching as the mailman ran, screaming and waving his hands in the air, as a spider climbed down the mailbox and into his little sister's awning hands.

"Good job, Homer, you managed to scare that man out of his wits," commented Harry as he stood up from the ground, Wednesday and Pugsley following. "How did you know he was afraid of spiders, Harry?" questioned Pugsley as he looked up at his older brother, admiration and wonder in his piercing blue eyes. "Yes, how did you know, Harry?" Wednesday asked in a skeptical tone. Her eyebrows rose in question, as her noose braids (braids he helped her do early this morning before elementary school started) swayed as they walked back to the house.

Harry smirked at his siblings. "Simple. I gave him a ring last week and pretended to be a person from a cruise company, saying he won a free cruise to the Caribbean. I asked him a bunch of questions, where he was from, his favorite color, before asking what he was most afraid of. To which he answered, saying: "Spiders, I hate spiders". Before I hung up on him."

Wednesday gave a smirk of her own. She loved her older brother and his schemes. He was very good at plotting a plan and hatching it. Of course, their mother and father taught him from a very young age.

"How thrilling, who shall we prey on next, dear brother?" she asked. Harry gave her an amused look. "I was thinking, Mr. Tully, he should be easy. Knowing that he's a coward would make my job easier." mused Harry, before they walked up the stairs of their home and opened the door. The three Addamses strode into their home, their dirty shoes creating stains and footprints on the plush carpet in the entryway, right by the winding staircase.

"Children!" said a silky voice coming from the top of the stairs. Standing there in a tight-fitting black dress was their mother. Morticia Addams. Her long glossy hair was in waves, and her arms were crossed over her chest. Her blood-red nails tapped against her arm as she arched a brow at her children. "Have you seen your father? He was supposed to be back by now." Harry turned his head to look at his siblings before shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, mother. We have not. We'll let you know when we see him." Harry gave her a nod before trailing off to the kitchens, where he knew his grandmother would be cooking some delicious dinner. Wednesday and Pugsley tried to follow, but their mother called their names, making them stop. Harry didn't stick around to hear what his mother wanted from his siblings and continued walking towards the kitchens - passing portraits as he went.

There were many portraits of his family. A lot of them were portraits of his siblings, with a few of his entire family—father, mother, sister, brother, and grandmother,—and a couple of just his parents; who were usually in a passionate embrace; and a few of his distant relations.

Of course, there was a portrait of his mother and him. It was his favorite. His mother and Harry were sitting in the cemetery, his mother wearing her long black dress and her blood-red lips were pulled into a smirk. Morticia had her hand resting on a toddler, Harry. His unruly black hair was as long and curly as ever, and her nails were running through the locks. He wore black shorts and a white button-up shirt with black suspenders, and in his hands was a butcher knife he stole from the kitchens earlier that day. His pale skin looked sickly and his green eyes were narrowed in concentration with his round glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and a sneer was curled at his lips. The portrait was perfect for Harry, and it made his stomach tingle with a feeling he didn't understand.

After admiring the portrait, he made a mental note to tell Lurch to dust this portrait corridor and make sure this particular portrait was extra dusty. He sighed and ran his hands through his black curls before counting his journey to the kitchens. The closer he got, the better he could hear his grandmother screeching the lullaby song she always sang while cooking. His Grandmother's voice could send a man to an early grave, and the thought of it made Harry shiver in pleasure.

He pushed the doors open and smirked at his grandmother. Her hair was fizzy and in a matted mess, and she wore an apron with blood and rips, and in the pockets of her apron were bits and pieces of body parts and herbs. He could smell witch hazel and herbs brewing in the many pots and cauldrons, and on the walls were recipes and potion recipes tacked up. Dried herbs were hanging from the ceiling and the walls, and glass vials and bottles were stocked everywhere.

"Hello Grandmother," said Harry in a bored voice. Grandmama looked over her shoulder to see her oldest grandson striding into the kitchen. She smirked and clapped her hands together. "Ah! Harry! Come, come! It's time for our lessons." an eager spark was in her eyes as she brushed her white hair back. "Today I'm going to show the art of poison, something that every child your age should have perfected. Tell me, did you read that book I gave you?"

Harry smirked in response. "Of course I did." He laced his hands together and bent them back, cracking them. He was buzzing in anticipation of the prospect of poisoning someone. He knew the basics, but he wanted to learn how to become immune to the poisons and how to get away with murder by only giving the victim small doses at a time.

Poisoning is a natural art for the Addamses. And even though he wasn't born an Addams, he's still an Addams in name and because he grew up in this family of eccentrics and "weirdos". Maybe he could even poison Bradly Chiles — an annoying boy from his elementary class. He was pretty, blonde, with perfect blue eyes, and a dick. He was a bully and hated Harry. Although, he never tries anything with Harry. Not since the third day of school. Not since Harry embarrassed Bradly so badly, he pissed himself in front of the entire 4th grade. Yes, that was a delightful day. The memory made Henry smirk to himself before he shook himself awake and took in the information his grandmother was giving him.

For the next two hours, Harry and Grandmama were in the kitchen, cutting herbs and roots, brewing poisons, and learning how to cut a mandrake root the proper way. It wasn't until the shrill scream of the alarm in the kitchen did they stop.

"Oh! That's dinner." Grandmama shuffled over to the oven. "We'll continue this lesson tomorrow, Harry." Harry nodded his head. "Okay. I'll go let Pugsley and Wednesday know that dinner is ready." He strode out of the kitchen and passed the portraits and heard his family before he saw them. Wednesday and Pugsley were screaming at each other, trying to see who had the most terrifying scream, and his parents were dancing to Lurch playing the harpsichord. His parents—as always—sported loving expressions on their faces as they waltz, his mother's head leaning against his father's shoulders.

Harry's face muscles twitched at the sight before clearing his throat.

"Dinner is ready," Gomez stops and turns his head towards Harry, a smirk on his face. "Ah! Harry my boy!" He and Morticia glide over to Harry. Wednesday and Pugsley followed their parents close behind. "Grandmama has demanded that it's dinnertime," he explained.

"Oh, Grandmama, what would we do without her repulsive dinners and demands?" cooed Morticia as the family of five wandered down to the dining room.

•••★•••

It was a horrible Saturday morning. The blasted sun was out, and the birds were chirping, and children were riding their bikes outside. When Harry woke up this morning, he recoiled in disgust at the sight of the sun's rays streaming into his black and bleak room. Poor Wednesday had screamed in terror at the sight.

He sighed and rolled off his bed, donning his black shorts and black-and-white striped shirt, and pulled on his socks and combat boots before striding down the stairs. Lurch was currently dusting the house and as he passed, Harry dragged his index finger across the railing of the winding staircase and saw it covered in dust. He smirked.

"Thank you Lurch," Lurch groaned in response and watched as Harry walked down the stairs with all the grace he learned from his mother, and the confidence he learned from his father. He watched as Pugsley ran around the house from Wednesday, clutching the headless doll she slept with.

"Come back here, you big lump!!" she shouted as Pugsley laughed. Harry's heart softened at the sight.

The doors opened from Gomez's office and Harry watched as Tully slumped away, keeping his briefcase close to his chest. Harry noticed immediately that Tully's suit was ripped in a few places, most likely because of his father beating him once again at their duel. Of course, that's what Harry expected. Gomez Addams has years of Mazurka training and Addams blood running through his veins. He's a natural swordsman.

Tully ignored all the chaos around him and walked out of the Addames home. He didn't even realize that the pet lion; Kitty walked past him and into the home. Purring in contempt. Once the doors slammed shut, Harry smiled and placed his hand on Kitty's head.

"Hello Kitty, pleasant sleep?" the lion purred in response as Harry's pale, long, and spider-like fingers threaded through his mane.

"Harry!! Tell Pugsley to give me back my doll!!"

Harry let his eyes land on his 9-year-old sister. Her black hair was in braids and her eyes were filled with anger and mischief. He knew, once this was all over, Wednesday would play a dangerous prank or use Pugsley as a guinea pig for one of her newest torture devices she received from her subscription: "Torturous Tortue". His mother had insisted she'd get a membership for her 9th birthday.

"Pugsley, why on earth did you outright steal her doll?" scolded Harry. His eyes filled with disappointment. "Haven't I taught better than this? You don't steal the doll, you do something to the doll. Fill it with confetti, or worse, pink glitter." Pugsley looked down in shame.

"Now, Pugsley, give Wednesday her doll back," Pugsley sighed and gave the doll back to Wednesday before he slithered off into the manor. Wednesday smirked before walking off in the opposite direction, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

Harry smirked and walked towards the dining room where Lurch was preparing breakfast while his mother sat next to his father's chair, opening up letters and muttering to herself.

"Good morning, Mother," greeted Harry. Morticia looked up and gave her eldest a loving smile.

"Good morning Harry, how was your sleep?" Harry kissed his mother's cheek before sitting down next to her. "Oh, it was horrible, filled with night terrors and darkness."

"Wonderful!" she chimed in. Lurch handed Harry a plate full of slop from his Grandmother's brew and he rubbed his hands in glee. His grandmother was the perfect cook.

As he ate his food, Morticia gasped at the sight of a letter. He looked up, his brows furrowing in confusion and curiosity. His mother hastily looked over the letter, reading the address and recognizing her old teacher's handwriting. She smiled softly before looking up at her son.

"Harry, darling, you are aware that we adopted you," started Morticia, as she placed the letter down on the table. Harry stopped eating and nodded his head. His parents never once kept the truth from him, that he was adopted and a mass murderer killed his biological parents.

"Well, my little snake, you have been invited by the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to attend their school." Harry looked down at his ringless fingers. "Is that the same school you attended, Mother?" Morticia nodded. "Yes, I had a lovely time there." She sighed happily.

"The school is in England and we would have to schedule a port key to take you there, and I would have to write to my sister to meet you and house you for a couple of weeks before term starts, and you'll have to do you shopping there as well." Gomez walked into the dining room and sat down next to his wife, kissing her cheek.

"But, I think you'll be able to go if you wish," Gomez looked up at his wife, confusion laced in his eyes. "Go where Cara Mia?" Morticia smiled and looked at her husband. "Oh my dear, Harry has been invited to attend Hogwarts, and I was just explaining to him what we'd have to do to ensure he goes." Gomez looked at his son with pride. "Oh, that's wonderful! Yes, we shall have to make all the arrangements."

"What if I refused?" said Harry, making his parents look at him in shock. "What do you mean, son?" asked Gomez, his brows shot up into his hair. "What if I do not wish to attend Hogwarts?" he repeated, his voice trembling. Morticia caught his tremble and smiled sadly at her boy.

"Oh Harry, this decision is not up to your father or myself. This is yours. You must decide, and whatever your decision is, we shall support you. No matter what." She reached across the table and held his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb on his pale skin. Harry gave his mother a rare smile and nodded his head.

"I wish to go, Mother, Father,"

Next Chapter

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘐 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘍𝘰𝘳

Harry Potter Characters

A Song Of Ice & Fire/Game of Thrones Characters

Marvel Characters

Book Characters

It’s so rare seeing memes that praise men and boys so here are two nice ones.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐍𝐨 𝐎𝐧𝐞

Next Chapter

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry and his twin, Y/n their longest-ever punishment. By the time they were allowed out of their cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, the first timeout on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches. (Y/n wanted to strangle his dimwitted cousin at that. Could he not see the old woman who just recently broke her leg?!)

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry and Y/n Hunting. This was why Y/n and Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where they could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came, they both would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in their life, they wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny. "They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it ― it might be sick." finished Y/n, and then ran, before Dudley could work out what they'd said. One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry and Y/n at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them as before, however, Y/n was still very fond of them and he continued to pet and play with them even though Harry refused to get near any of them. Mrs. Figg even let Harry and Y/n watch television and gave them a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life. As Y/n looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins. He looked so handsome and grown-up. Y/n wanted to laugh, he thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry and Y/n went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. They went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water. "What's this?" Y/n asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he or Harry dared to ask a question. "Your new school uniform," she said. Y/n looked in the bowl again. "Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"Don't be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray for you both. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished." Y/n and Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. They sat down at the table and tried not to think about how they were going to look on his first day at Stonewall High ― like they were wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably. Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's and Y/n's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table. They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

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

"Make Harry and Y/n get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke them with your Smelting stick, Dudley." Harry and Y/n dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and ― a letter for Harry and Y/n. Harry picked them up, and he handed Y/n his letter before he stared at it. Y/n's heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He and Harry had no friends, no other relatives ― he and Harry didn't belong to the library, so they'd never even got rude notes asking for books back.

Yet there it was, a letter addressed so plainly there could be no mistake: Mr. Y/I. 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, Y/n's hand trembling, Harry and Y/n 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, boys!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke. Harry and Y/n went back to the kitchen, still staring at their letter. They handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, then Y/n 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, and Y/n got something!" Y/n and Harry were on the point of unfolding their letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope when it was jerked sharply out of their hands by Uncle Vernon."That's ours!" said Harry and Y/n, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you two?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter's 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 the second set was the grayish white of old porridge."P-P-Petunia!" he gasped. Dudley tried to grab the letters to read them, but Uncle Vernon held them high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took them 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, Y/n, 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 Smelting stick.

"I want to read those letters," he said loudly.

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

"Get out, all of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letters back inside its envelope. Harry didn't move, while Y/n glared at his aunt and uncle furiously. "I WANT MY LETTER!" Harry shouted. "Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall and grabbed Y/n by his arm and shoved him into his twin brother, then slammed the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor, while Y/n pushed Dudley over to look into the keyhole (the two of them ended up pushing the other out of the way for a while until Dudley decided to place his head on top of Y/n's, but he didn't care, he was too busy trying to listen to his aunt and uncle).

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address ― how could they possibly know where they sleep? 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? Tell them we don't want ―" Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

"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....,"

"But ―"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took them in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?" That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry and Y/n in their cupboard. "Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?" asked Y/n, his arms were crossed over his chest.

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

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

"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.

"Er ― yes, Harry, Y/n ― about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you both are really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you guys moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

"Why?" said Harry.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom.

It only took Harry and Y/n one trip upstairs to move everything they owned from the cupboard to this room. Y/n sat down on the bed and stared around him as Harry put their stuff away. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next-door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end-all bent because Dudley had sat on it.

Other shelves were full of books (which Y/n was happy about). They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched. From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, "I don't want them in there... I need that room... make them get out...." Harry sighed and Y/n stretched out on the bed. Yesterday, they'd have given anything to be up here. Today, they'd rather be back in their cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

"G'night Harry," mumbled Y/n, he closed his eyes and curled up to sleep. Harry looked at his twin, smiling. "Good night Y/n,"

The next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall, while Y/n watched his cousin throwing a tantrum in amusement.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly. When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry and Y/n, 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 and Mr. Y/I Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive ―'"

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leaped from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry and Y/n right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind while Y/n was on his arms, trying to get the fat man to stay still.

After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's and Y/n's letter clutched in his hand.

"Go to your cupboard ― I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at the boys.

"Dudley ― go ― just go."

Harry walked round and round his new room with Y/n right behind him. Someone knew Y/n and Harry had moved out of their cupboard and they seemed to know they hadn't received their first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time, Harry will make sure they didn't fail.

He had a plan. The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. "Harry? What are you doing?" asked Y/n. He rose up from the bed, sleep still in his e/c eyes. "I'm going to go get our letters," he said. Y/n looked at his brother.

"But -"

"No, no buts. You stay here." Y/n tried to object, but Harry strode out of the small bedroom. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door― Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat—something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror, Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Y/n looked at his brother and shook his head. He was awoken by his uncle shouting at Harry and he dragged himself out of bed to help his brother make breakfast.

Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink. "I want―" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them, they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia. They're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry and Y/n. As they couldn't go through the mail slot, they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked and jumped at small noises. On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry and Y/n found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window.

While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry and Y/n in amazement. On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers. "no damn letters today ―"

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. The next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one, while Y/n rolled his eyes at his brother and picked one up from the floor, tearing it open in seconds.

"Out! OUT!"

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and grabbed Y/n by his arm, ripping the now open letter out of his hands before Y/n could even read the cursive ink writing, and threw them into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. "I want you all back here in five minutes, ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!" He looked so dangerous, with half his mustache missing, that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later, they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway.

Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag. They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they were going. Now and then, Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'emoff," he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall, Dudley was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry. He'd missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer. Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley, Harry, and Y/n shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored, but Harry and Y/n stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering ... They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day.

They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table."'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter and Mr. Y/n. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk." She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H. Potter and Mr. Y/I. Potter.

Room 17

Railview Hotel Cokeworth.

Harry and Y/n made a grab for the letter, but Uncle Vernon knocked their hands out of the way. The woman stared. "I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.

"Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for. None of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again.

The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared. It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television."

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday ― and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television ― then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's and Y/n's eleventh birthday.

Of course, their birthdays were never exactly fun ― last year, the Dursleys had given Harry a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks and Y/n got a moth-eaten pair of socks with some string. Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back, and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd bought.

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!" It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!" A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them. "I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon. "so all aboard!"

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours, they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house. The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed; the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms. Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire, but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully. He was in a very good mood. Obviously, he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry and Y/n privately agreed; though the thought didn't cheer them up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, while Harry and Y/n were left to find the softest bit of floor they could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Y/n was sitting up, his knees brought to his chest as he shivered. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry and Y/n they'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. Harry laid and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go.

Y/n heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.

Four minutes to go.

Maybe the house on Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go.

Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that?

And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he and Harry would be eleven.

Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten...nine ― maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him ― three... two...one...BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright and Y/n shot up, his eyes wide and staring at the door.

Someone was outside. Knocking to come in.