Mr. and Mrs. Privet of number five Dorsley Drive were anything but normal. They had been perfectly ordinary just weeks earlier, but now they were as unhinged as the residents of the local asylum.

On the surface, Mr. Privet—a tall, bald, impossibly thin man—appeared respectable enough. Beneath that facade, however, he was a writhing mass of nervous tics, peculiar habits, peptic ulcers, and unbridled neurosis. Mrs. Privet, extraordinarily stout and equally afflicted by her husband’s madness, suffered from an additional torment: voices in her head. They might whisper to her at any hour, causing her to bolt upright in bed, shrieking so violently that her husband would shake uncontrollably for minutes afterward.

Despite these afflictions, the Privets attempted to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Yet hardly a day passed without one of them succumbing to an episode that would have sent most people fleeing in terror.

Before continuing, I must tell you about their son, Box Privet. This child—the apple of their bloodshot eyes—shared his father’s towering, skeletal frame. His classmates often mocked his appearance, but Box paid them no mind. His heart belonged entirely to electronics. In his cramped bedroom, he spent countless hours with soldering iron and needle-nose pliers, crafting his inventions. It was solitary work, but it was his passion.

The Privets had been among the happiest families on their estate of mock-Elizabethan houses. Their contentment, however, was built on a foundation of secrecy. As long as their terrible secret remained contained at Hagswords, a private boarding school with a reputation for handling “difficult” children, they had enjoyed peace. But the moment that secret escaped its institutional prison, their tranquil existence shattered.

The secret was a young girl—an orphan, their only niece—named Harry Rotter. Christened Harriet, she had insisted from an early age that everyone call her Harry.

Harry was the boldest, cruelest, most vindictive child you could have the misfortune to encounter. With her cascade of golden hair and angelic features, she appeared innocent enough to fool anyone. But beneath that cherubic exterior lurked a ruthless bully who respected no one but herself. She had a talent for making everyone around her miserable—and she wielded it with precision.

While Harry remained safely locked away at school, the Privets could forget their troublesome niece. But when she broke out of that high-security institution and appeared on their doorstep, their lives changed forever.

“Excuse me,” Harry said with perfect politeness when Mrs. Privet opened the door. “I’m your only niece. Could you put me up for a few days?”

“Young Harriet, isn’t it?” Mrs. Privet patted her head nervously. “Are you on holiday from school?”

Ignoring the question while suppressing the urge to kick the condescending woman, Harry smiled sweetly. “I prefer Harry, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Privet ushered her through the doorway, glancing anxiously up and down the empty street. “Please, go into the sitting room.”

The family cat streaked past Harry and out the door as if fleeing for its life.

Harry surveyed the room with distaste—too much stained glass and wood paneling, just like Hagswords.

“Sit down, make yourself comfortable,” Mrs. Privet said. “I’ll fetch you some lemonade. You must be parched from traveling. Then I’ll tell your uncle you’re here.”

Mrs. Privet hurried to the hallway and opened the small door beneath the stairs. “Dear,” she called down to the cellar, “we have a visitor.”

“Who?” came the muffled reply.

“Your niece.”

BANG. The sound of a bald head meeting a low beam echoed up the stairs, followed by silence.

“Did you hear me, darling?”

Indistinct grumbling from below.

“Are you sure it’s *that* niece?” Mr. Privet’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes, dear. Harry Rotter.”

“Harry or Harriet—you should know which.”

“She’s a girl. She just prefers Harry.”

“I don’t know what I know anymore,” Mr. Privet muttered, climbing the narrow stairs. “First your voices, now your relatives.” He emerged, puffing. “Where is she?”

“The sitting room.”

“Our best china’s in there!” He thundered down the hallway and burst through the door.

Inside, Harry was examining a piece of their hand-painted bone china with the intensity of an appraiser.

“That’s an heirloom,” he said quickly, eyeing her canvas bag with suspicion. “Not worth anything, of course.”

“Not worth anything?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Not a penny.”

“Then may I have it as a keepsake?”

Mr. Privet nearly choked. “We… we promised your grandmother we’d treasure it always.”

Harry studied his perspiring face for signs of deception. “I see.” Her gaze swept the room. “Surely there’s something among all this that you don’t want.”

“Everything’s spoken for,” he squeaked, then quickly changed subjects. “What brings you here?”

“I’ve already told your wife. I’ll be staying a few days.”

This time Mr. Privet did choke.

Mrs. Privet entered with a tray bearing a tall glass of lemonade. “Everything all right?” she asked, smiling with forced innocence.

Chapter Two: Meet the Son

Over the next few days, Harry settled comfortably into number five Dorsley Drive. The same could not be said for her relationship with Mr. and Mrs. Privet’s beloved son, Box. From the moment Harry laid eyes on his bespectacled face and spindly frame, she had taken an instant dislike to her cousin. Box reciprocated her feelings with equal fervor, but he was no match for Harry’s calculating cruelty and relentless determination to make his existence a living hell.

This war between the cousins strained Harry’s relationship with the Privets, who had always prided themselves on being open-minded and understanding of challenging childhood behavior. They tried—desperately—to ignore the terrible things Harry inflicted upon their only son. She knocked him down the stairs, salted his porridge, and sabotaged the electronic gadgets he treasured by removing every fuse she could find.

Box began avoiding Harry like a plague victim. If he spotted her approaching on the street, he would dart into the nearest shop. When no shops were available, he would scramble up a stranger’s garden path and pound frantically on their door as if his life depended on it.

At home, Box retreated to his bedroom, installing bolt after bolt and lock after lock on his door to protect himself from Harry’s malevolent interference. Every night, the household listened to the ritual: Bang, bang, bang—the sound of Box sliding each bolt home before retreating to the safety of his bed. He would do anything to avoid Harry. Absolutely anything.

Harry, meanwhile, had no need for locks. Who would dare enter her room uninvited? Though she had free run of the house and made full use of it, she too began spending more time in her room—but for entirely different reasons than her cowering cousin. Harry had things to plan.

It had been several days since her escape from Hagswords. Though Harry had conjured a mannequin to replace herself in her dormitory bed, she knew its effectiveness was temporary. Soon the school authorities would begin tracking her, following her trail until they found her at number five Dorsley Drive.

She had considered using a concealment spell to disguise her whereabouts when they came looking, but with all the coming and going at the Privets’ house, the spell would be compromised. The only way to ensure its effectiveness would be to prevent anyone from entering or leaving the house. And she couldn’t do that—could she?

Bang, bang, bang. Another night arrived, and Box sealed himself safely in his bedroom, away from his dreaded cousin.

In the quiet of her room, Harry lay comfortably in bed, absorbed in an ancient book she had discovered hidden in Hagswords’ library. “They’re so stupid at that school,” she hissed. “They call it a school for mysticism and magic—more like a school for tolerance and fear. Fear of hurting the precious feelings of all those pathetic Muddles, and far too much tolerance of them. As for the Principal…” Her lips curved into a cold smile. “I’ll show him. I’ll show them all—including the Muddles—what I’m truly capable of.”

Harry continued reading deep into the night.

The next morning, Box leaped from bed, determined to execute his morning routine at breakneck speed—the pace he’d adopted since Harry’s arrival. His plan was simple: rush through washing, dash downstairs, wolf down breakfast, gulp his tea, grab his satchel, and escape to school before Harry woke.

After carefully sliding open the bolts on his bedroom door, Box peered out to check if the coast was clear.

“Good morning,” Harry said sweetly, her face less than three inches from his nose. “Did you sleep well?”

“I—I—” Box stammered, shocked both by her presence and her unnaturally sweet tone. He slammed the door shut.

Knock knock. “Box, it’s me, Harry,” she continued in that same unsettling sweetness. “Box, are you coming out today?”

Convinced his end was near, that his evil cousin was about to finish him off once and for all, Box said nothing.

“Is that you, Box?” Mrs. Privet called from the bottom of the stairs.

“No, it’s me—Harry.”

Mrs. Privet, startled that Harry was awake so early, returned to the kitchen to prepare the full English breakfast Harry demanded each morning. Poking her head out of the kitchen door, she asked hopefully, “Would you like to go somewhere nice today? The zoo, perhaps?”

It was Saturday. Harry had been so absorbed in her ancient book that she’d lost track of time entirely. Her mind snapped into action. “Yes, I’d love to.” She paused, then added with false enthusiasm, “But only if Box comes along.”

At the kitchen table, Mr. Privet peered over his newspaper and beckoned his wife over. “Now why,” he whispered urgently, “did you have to go and say that?”

Chapter Three: Secrecy at any cost

Next morning, Harry, knocking softly on Box’s bedroom door, whispered, “Box, are you awake?”

“Hmm, what is it?” he mumbled sleepily.

“I said, are you awake?”

“What time is it?” Box asked, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s half past six.”

 “Half past six, are you sure?” Box asked, unwilling to believe that even she would consider awakening him at so early an hour. Reaching for his glasses on the bedside locker, and then grabbing hold of his watch, Box gazed sleepily onto its face, to see if he had heard her correctly. Staring at the dial, he saw that it was indeed six thirty.

“Yes, I am sure of it,” said Harry, louder this time. “Now are you getting up or do I have to send off for that snake?”

Jumping out of bed, putting on his dressing gown and slippers, Box unbolted the door. Bang, bang, bang, the bolts slid back from their nighttime position. The door, creaking open, revealed the sleepy face of Box, Harry’s tall and whimpishly thin cousin. “What’s the problem,” he asked, yawning and scratching his head.

“There’s no problem,” she replied casually. “We have to get started.”

“But it’s Sunday,” he protested, “and I always have a lie in on Sundays.”

“Not anymore, you don’t,” she said. “Not until our work has been done.”

“But we have to buy supplies,” he protested again, “and the electrical shop isn’t open until tomorrow…” But it was useless complaining, Box was simply wasting his time trying to put Harry off, she wanted to get started and nothing would dissuade her from it, absolutely nothing. And he thought, ‘she might really have that snake stashed somewhere nearby, mightn’t she?’ Agreeing, he said, “All right, I’ll get up, but I want some breakfast, first.”

“Okay, I’ll see you downstairs,” Harry replied, and with that she dashed down the stairs at full pelt.

Scratching his head, Box wondered what he had done to deserve a cousin such as Harry.

“Here you are,” said Harry, pointing to a plate on the table, when Box entered the kitchen.

“What’s that?” he asked, sitting down and inspecting the plate with some interest.

“A fry-up, of course,” she replied, pushing it closer. “That’ll keep you going…”

Even though he was puzzled – for there was no smell of cooking – Box said nothing; he knew better than to ask her such ‘Muddling’ questions.

“And keep the noise down,” Harry warned. “We don’t want to be waking the old cronies.”

Old cronies? Oh, you mean mum and dad,” he said with a laugh. “Y’know, I used to call them that, a while back.”

“You did?”

“Yep, it’s a funny old world, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” Harry replied, thinking about how many other silly Muddles were living in Dorsley Drive.

When he had finished eating his breakfast, and it was a surprisingly good fry-up, Box asked Harry what was first on the agenda.

“Secrecy,” she replied, again in a whisper.

“Pardon?”

“I said secrecy is the first thing on the agenda,” she insisted. “You must keep everything that we do a secret from your parents!”

Box gulped. “Everything?” You see, up until then he had no secrets hidden from them.

“Yes, everything,” she insisted. “And not just them, but everyone you know. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, I suppose so – but it won’t be easy.”

Harry ignored this comment.

“Where are we going?” Box asked, following Harry out from the house.

“Somewhere private…”

Harry walked, Box followed.

After buying a pen and a notepad from the local newsagents, Harry led the short distance to the park. After climbing over the locked gates, Harry chose a spot on the grass where they could sit. “Sit down,” she ordered.

“Here?”

Yes.”

It might be damp…”

“SIT!”

Obeying her, Box sat upon the grass, and then he watched as his troublesome cousin scribbled her thoughts down onto the notepad. It took her a while, to do this, a good while. Bored, waiting for her to finish, Box nonchalantly watched the sparrows scurrying ever closer, hoping for a handout of some food scraps they might have.

When Harry had finally finished recording her thoughts onto the notepad, she handed it to Box, saying, “Take a look, and then tell me what you think.”

Box studied the notes with some interest – all two pages of them. Then turning to a new page, and without saying a word, he asked for the pen. Harry gave it to him. Writing feverously, Box recorded his own thoughts and ideas into the little notepad, filling page after page with ever more complex ideas. Every now and again he would pause for a moment to refer back to his cousin’s scribbles, and then he would start off again, working his way through to the final design. When he was finished, Box had filled fifteen pages with notes, and another two with a list of the materials required for the task.

“Here,” he said, returning the notepad to Harry. “Now you take as look…”

Harry studied the plans. When she had seen enough, she said, “It might as well be in double-dutch for all that it means to me, but I trust you, cousin, so lets gets on with it.”

Box grinned; he loved a challenge and this was most certainly a challenge.  The grin disappearing from his face, Box looked terribly worried.

“What’s wrong?” said Harry, confused by his change of emotions.

“Money!” he replied.

“Money, what about money?” Harry asked.

“We need some – loads of it,” Box groaned. “That lot will cost us a bomb.”

“Leave the matter of money to me,” Harry replied calmly. “You just concentrate on getting the work done.”

Next day, Monday, Harry and Box set off for town and the electrical supplier located therein.

“I can’t imagine what has gotten into those two,” said Mrs Privet, pulling back the curtain, watching Harry and Box step up to the bus. “One day they are mortal enemies, and the next they are bosom buddies.”

Sitting at the kitchen table, studying the remains of his son’s fried breakfast, Mr Privet asked, “Any more where this lot came from?”

 Town was busy; Harry hated towns, there were far too many Muddles in them for her liking. “Which way?” she asked, narrowly avoiding a youth speeding passed, on a motor scooter.

“This way,” said Box, pointing up the hill.

It was a long walk, up that hill, to where the best electrical supplier in town was located. Unaccustomed to such extreme walking, Harry’s legs soon began to ache. “Why couldn’t they have built their shop at the bottom of the hill?” she complained. Then remembering that it was Muddles she was talking about, she laughed, saying, “No, don’t answer that.”

As they stepped into the old shop, the bell over the door jingled signalling their arrival. An ancient man standing behind a dusty old counter studied them over the top of his equally as dusty spectacle lenses. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I certainly hope so,” said Harry.

“Box handed the man their list of requirements.

“Hmm,” he said, making his way through the long list, “a most unusual mixture of items… What is it you said you were making?”

“We didn’t,” Harry snapped.

“We’re making a transmitter,” Box lied, thinking this approach better than his cousin’s confrontational one.

“A transmitter, you say,” said the man, pushing his grimy glasses up to the top of his head. Harry wondered how he had managed to see through them at all.

“Yes,” explained Box, “but it’s only an experiment, nothing big, you know…”

“You really need a licence, you do know that?”

“We do, but it’s only an experiment, for school, and a temporary one at that.”

“Hmm,” said the man, reaching under the counter for his order book into which he began writing. “In that case, I suppose it’s all right.” When he had finished copying Box’s list into his book, he stepped through a doorway leading into the rear of the shop and disappeared from sight. 

Relieved that they were getting their supplies, Box turned away from the counter and studied the electrical advertising posters sticky taped to the walls. Harry stared out the window, bored.

After waiting for a good twenty minutes, they heard the sound of slow footsteps signalling the return of the old man. Puffing and panting he emerged through the doorway, carrying two cardboard boxes, one under each arm, loaded with electrical items, that he plonked down heavily on the counter. A cloud of fine dust rose high into the still air. Harry coughed.

“There you are,” he said, “everything you were a wanting. Some of these things were stashed way back to the rear of the shelves, hadn’t sold any of them for years. Thought I never would. Just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

“Thanks,” said Box. “How much do we owe you?”

“I have the bill in here somewhere,” he said, rummaging about in one of the boxes. “Ah, here it is.” He handed it to him.  Box almost fainted when he saw how much it amounted to.

Snatching the bill, Harry said, “Give that to me.” After inspecting it, the final figure that is, without flinching as much as an eyelid, Harry opened her shoulder bag and withdrew a small purse.”There you are,” she said, offering three golden coins to the man, “and you can keep the change.”

Inspecting the coins, he said, “Are you sure? These are worth an awful lot more that the bill amount to!”

Without saying another word, Harry opened the door and instructed Box to carry the boxes. Grabbing hold of them, struggling under their weight, he followed her out from the shop, asking, “Where did you get those coins from?”

CONTD