But presently Uncle Vernon returns, smiling and carrying a long, thin package. He ignores Petunia's pleas and says, "Found the perfect place! Come on, everyone out!" He seems oblivious to the heavy drops of rain pelting his face.

Ugh. It's cold and wet and even the cupboard was better than this.

It's very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon points at what looks like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock is the most miserable little shack one could imagine. One thing's certain, there is no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" says Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!"

A toothless old man comes ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

"I've already got us some rations," says Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"

She's not sure she wants to know what he thinks of as rations at this point.

It's freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain creep down their necks and a chilly wind whips their faces. After what seem like hours they reach the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, leads the way to the broken-down house.

The inside is horrible; it smells strongly of seaweed, the wind whistles through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace is damp and empty. There are only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon's rations turn out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tries to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoke and shrivel up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he says cheerfully.

He's in a very good mood, probably thinking nobody stands a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. 

Because that logic works so well when these people can put letters in eggs.

As night falls, the promised storm blows up around them. Spray from the high waves splatter the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattles the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia finds a few mouldy blankets in the second room and makes up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon go off to the lumpy bed next door, and Dorea's left to find the softest bit of floor she can and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

Aaaaauugh.

Well.

She knows better than to complain out loud.

The storm rages more and more ferociously as the night goes on. Dudley's snores are drowned by the low rolls of thunder that start near midnight.

It'll soon be her birthday.

And then Dorea can hear something creak outside...

Happy birthday to meeee~

Creaking from outside isn't that unexpected, all things considered.

Is that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And what's that funny crunching noise? Is the rock crumbling?

--No that sounds like footsteps.

One minute 'til midnight. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven...

She's paying way more attention to the footsteps than the time.

No more footsteps. Those noises... could be creaking wood but could also just be the wind.

Someone leaving letters they'll find in the morning?

...three... two... one...

BOOM (from the door), and the whole shack shivers as someone knocks to come in.

Dorea considers the letter, considers what Uncle Vernon has been doing to them, and goes to open the door.

And Dudley jerks awake. "Where's the cannon?"

And on the other side of the wall is the largest man Dorea's ever seen. His face is almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but one can make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. He looks down at Dorea when the girl opens the door.

There's a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon comes skidding into the room. He's holding a rifle in his hands—now they know what had been in the long, thin package he brought with them.

"Who's there?" he shouts—and freezes in terror at the sight of the giant.

She grins up at the man--she hasn't turned around to see the rifle--and says brightly, "Hi! Are you from the school! I tried to send an acceptance, but there wasn't a return address. And I don't know what the letter meant by owl."

He grins. "Aye—Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper o' Keys an' Grounds at Hogwarts. An' they meant an owl, yeh know, bird, yea small, flies at night." He squeezes through the door. "Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh?" he asks in Uncle Vernon's general direction. "It's not been an easy journey..."