A cloud of sickly sweet smoke blew from the upper window at number 4 Privet Drive. A relaxed Harry Potter lay back on his bed and flicked another empty can of cider into the waste paper basket. Damn the local police for slapping that Asbo on him. How could the local magistrates have understood what had really happened on the first night of the summer holidays? He'd been battling an escaped gargoyle in the bus shelter on the High Street when a mistimed Dramaticus Detonatus spell had caused the unfortunate beast to explode. The bright red liquid the police had found splattered all over the walls inside had been nothing to do with aerosol street art, whatever they might have thought. Harry sighed. It was never easy being an undercover teenage assassin. So here he was, locked away in his tiny bedroom with just thoughts of Hermione and a box of tissues to keep him company.
How Harry longed to get back to Hogwarts and the first year of his Magical A level studies. He was planning on taking Potions, Alchemy and Spelling, although Professor Dumbledore had also insisted he enrol for Double Dark Arts as well. Harry wondered who the new supply teacher might be this year, and whether he or she would ever bother to mark any of his mountain of coursework. An owl tapped at the window carrying a glowing envelope in his beak. "Oh Voldemort!" thought Harry, "it's my GCSE results!" The envelope opened itself as it flapped into the room, landing on the bedside table with a dejected thud. Harry frowned when he saw that his list of grades contained more Es than that nightclub Ron had taken him to a few Saturdays back.
Harry's acne was erupting again. Cousin Dudley had teased him about it all summer, gloating that so famous a magician couldn't keep his sebaceous glands under control. Stupid muggle. Did he not realise that Harry was a world-class athlete, lifting the quidditch gold medal at the recent Hogwarts Magilympics. All that and a multi-million pound sponsorship deal with Ollivanders into the bargain. At least Uncle Vernon still hadn't spotted Harry's deadly nightshade tattoo, carefully inked out of sight halfway down the small of his back. It was good being the Gryffyndor rebel, thought Harry, even if nobody else knew.
The owl had left another package on the bedroom floor. Impatiently Harry ripped off one end of the brown cardboard wrapper and was delighted to see, glistening inside, a copy of that wizard new book by the famous Scottish authoress. He'd had to fork out a small fortune to get his hands on a copy, but Amazon's airmail service had delivered right on time just as they'd promised. Suddenly the weekend didn't look quite so bad after all. Harry could bury himself in the strangely familiar story and block out all that adolescent angst, despair and inappropriate thoughts about cleavage. Eagerly he turned to chapter one and began reading...
(remainder of text embargoed until midnight tonight)
