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For Séan P.F. Harris, getaway driver and foulweather friend

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew Harry’s room.

‘Third time this week!’ he roared across the table. ‘If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!’

Harry tried, yet again, to explain.

‘She’s bored,’ he said. ‘She’s used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night …’

‘Do I look stupid?’ snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy moustache. ‘I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.’

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley.

‘I want more bacon.’

‘There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,’ said Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. ‘We must feed you up while we’ve got the chance … I don’t like the sound of that school food …’