It wasn’t the first time a quarrel had broken out at the breakfast table in the house on Privet Drive, number 4. Mr. Vernon Dursley had woken up early in the morning to a loud croaking sound coming from his nephew Harry’s room. “This is the third time in a week!” he roared from the other side of the table. “If you can’t control the owl, get rid of it!” Harry tried, for the umpteenth time, it’s true, to explain. “It’s bored,” he said. “It’s used to flying free. If I left it outside at night…” “Do I look stupid to you?” growled Uncle Vernon, a piece of fried egg hanging from his thick mustache. “Do you know what will happen if we leave the owl outside…” He exchanged a grim look with his wife, Petunia. Harry was about to reply, but a loud, prolonged burp from Dudley, the Dursleys’ son, drowned out his words. “I want more bacon.” “There’s some in the pan, my dear,” Aunt Petunia said, looking affectionately at her chubby son. “We have to feed you well now that you’re here… I don’t trust the school food you get…”

“Nonsense, Petunia. When I was at Smelting’s, I was never hungry,” declared Uncle Vernon. “Dudley eats well, doesn’t he, son?” Dudley, who was so fat that his backside overflowed from the chair, smiled and turned to Harry. “Give me the pan.” “You forgot the magic word,” Harry said irritably. This simple phrase had an incredible effect on the family: Dudley fell from his chair with a muffled groan, shaking the entire kitchen; Mrs. Dursley let out a small cry and covered her mouth with her hands; Mr. Dursley jumped up, veins bulging at his temples. “I meant ‘please’!” Harry hurried to say. “I didn’t mean…” “WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” his uncle thundered, spitting all over the table, “ABOUT THE WORD THAT STARTS WITH P IN THIS HOUSE?”