Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his left
and swearing under his breath, he shouldered open his
bedroom door. There was a crunch of breaking china: He had trodden
on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on the floor outside
his bedroom door.
“What the — ?”
He looked around; the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was
deserted. Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley’s idea of a clever booby
trap. Keeping his bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments
of cup together with the other hand and threw them into the
already crammed bin just visible inside his bedroom door. Then he
tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under the tap.
It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had
four days left of being unable to perform magic . . . but he had to admit
to himself that this jagged cut in his finger would have defeated
him. He had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he came...
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