“Up!
Get up!
Now!”
Early that morning, Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice pierced Harry’s ears and dragged him out of his sleep.
She was hammering on his door again.
“Get up!” she screeched before turning and marching toward the kitchen.
Inside the cramped cupboard beneath the stairs, Harry rolled over with his back to the door and tried desperately to recall the dream he had just been having.
It had been a wonderful dream involving a flying motorcycle, which Harry thought was about the most exciting thing imaginable.
Unfortunately, Uncle Vernon was always declaring that the Dursleys were a respectable family.
Strange subjects such as flying motorcycles were forbidden in their home, since they did not believe in such nonsense and had no intention of allowing anyone else to believe in it either.
Before Harry could recover more than a few fragments of the dream, Aunt Petunia returned and rapped sharply on the cupboard door.
“Are you up yet?”
“Nearly,” Harry replied helplessly.
“Well, hurry up.
I want you to watch the bacon, and don’t you dare let it burn!” His aunt’s voice immediately became brighter as she added, “I want everything to be perfect for Dudley’s birthday.”
Harry slowly climbed out of bed, retrieved his socks from beneath it, and flicked a spider off one of them before pulling them on.
Once he had dressed, he emerged from the cupboard under the stairs and followed the hallway to the kitchen.
The dining table was completely buried beneath a mountain of presents, without even a small patch of its surface left uncovered.
Harry had barely managed to glance at the brightly wrapped boxes when Aunt Petunia shoved him from behind.
“What are you standing around for?
Go and fry the bacon!”
After breakfast, Harry sat quietly in a corner and watched the Dursleys fuss over Dudley as he tore open his presents.
One toy after another emerged from the boxes, only to be tossed aside almost immediately in favor of the next.
The telephone suddenly rang.
Aunt Petunia left to answer it, but when she returned a moment later, her face was tight with anger and anxiety.
“Bad news,” she announced, turning toward her husband.
“Mrs.
Figg has broken her leg.
She can’t take him.”
As she spoke, she jerked her chin in Harry’s direction.
Everyone’s expression darkened immediately—except Harry’s.
He was secretly rather pleased.
Every year on Dudley’s birthday, the Dursleys left Harry at Mrs.
Figg’s house while they took Dudley somewhere enjoyable.
Spending the day with Mrs.
Figg meant sitting in a cabbage-scented house and looking through photographs of every cat she had ever owned.
“Shall we call Marge?” Uncle Vernon suggested after a moment, apparently deciding that Harry could be sent to his sister’s house instead.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Vernon.
She hates the boy,” Petunia replied without hesitation.
“What about that friend of yours?
Yvonne, wasn’t it?”
“She’s holidaying in Majorca.”
“You could leave me here,” Harry quickly suggested.
After listening to them propose one unsuitable person after another, Harry could no longer remain silent.
Being left alone at home would be far better than being sent to someone else’s house.
He could watch whichever television programmes he wanted and might even sneak onto Dudley’s computer for a while.
The instant the suggestion left his mouth, Aunt Petunia’s face twisted with fury.
“And come home to discover that you’ve destroyed the entire house?”
“I swear I wouldn’t—”
Harry tried to explain, but no one paid him any attention.
“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” Aunt Petunia said at last, sighing as though she were making an enormous sacrifice.
“We could leave him in the car.”
“It’s a new car!
You can’t leave him in it by himself!” Dudley howled, his face crumpling as he pretended to cry.
Harry inwardly rolled his eyes as Aunt Petunia hurried to comfort her precious son with a heartbroken expression.
Anyone with eyes could see that the piggish boy had not shed a single tear.
From the safety of his mother’s embrace, Dudley smirked at Harry, causing the rolls of fat on his face to bunch together.
The sight left Harry thoroughly disgusted.
“Perhaps…” Uncle Vernon suddenly said as he looked through the window.
“We could leave him with the new neighbor.”
“You mean Mr.
Moriarty?”
Aunt Petunia sounded uncertain.
It was not necessarily a bad idea, but during the half month since their new neighbor had moved in, she had only seen him once—on the day of his arrival.
“But he’s barely ever there.”
Rumor had it that Mr.
Moriarty was an eccentric recluse who almost never left his house.
“It won’t matter,” Vernon declared, waving one thick hand and settling the matter himself.
“It’s only for one day.
Nothing will go wrong.”
Vernon had formed a reasonably favorable impression of Mr.
Moriarty.
The man dressed respectably, carried an expensive cane, and wore jewelry that was clearly worth a small fortune.
In Vernon’s eyes, such things outweighed the minor flaw of being a little reclusive.
Having made his decision, Vernon turned toward Harry and thrust his enormous purplish-red face within inches of the boy’s.
“I’m warning you, boy.
If you do anything strange—anything at all—you’ll remain in that cupboard until Christmas!”
Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but quickly realized that there was no point.
No matter what he said, Uncle Vernon would never believe him.
Nobody ever believed Harry, even though strange things had a habit of happening around him.
…
Thunder rolled continuously beyond the windows, illuminating the darkness in brilliant flashes.
Heavy raindrops battered the glass with a relentless patter, while the distant cry of an eagle occasionally rose above the storm.
Inside the Moving Castle’s main room, Hermes sat at a long table and quietly observed the creature beside him devouring chunks of raw meat.
A quill hovered over a sheet of parchment nearby, dutifully recording every detail without the assistance of a visible hand.
The creature was a newly hatched Antipodean Opaleye.
Its four legs trembled whenever it attempted to stand, and its entire body was no larger than a house cat.
Pale blue-green scales covered its body, shimmering with a pearlescent sheen beneath Calcifer’s firelight.
Fine blue-green veins were clearly visible across its delicate wings, which were still too weak to unfurl completely.
After swallowing the meat in its mouth, the hatchling raised its pupil-less, iridescent eyes and stared expectantly at Hermes, clearly begging for another piece.
“When it grows a little larger, we can begin drawing small amounts of blood for research,” Calcifer remarked from the edge of the fireplace, gazing warmly at the young dragon.
Magical creatures were treasure troves in every sense of the word.
Their hair, blood, scales, bones, and countless other body parts all contained magical power.
Once Hermes thoroughly understood the properties of those materials, he could use them to cast the spells preserved within the Moving Castle’s magical legacy.
It was magic that did not belong to this world.
The concealment enchantment Hermes used to hide the Moving Castle from both Muggles and wizards had been created through that very system.
Before Hermes could offer the hatchling another piece of meat, someone began knocking hurriedly on the door.
He slowly rose from his chair and crossed the main room.
With a quiet mechanical click, the pointer on the dial beside the door turned from the red section to the blue.
The view beyond the windows changed instantly.
The rain-drenched tropical rainforest disappeared, replaced by the neat houses and perfectly maintained gardens of Privet Drive.