Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Narrated by Stephen Fry)

a lot of holiday work. One of the essays, a particularly nasty one about shrinking potions, was for Harry's least favourite teacher, Professor Snape, who would be delighted to have an excuse to give Harry detention for a month. Harry had therefore seized his chance in the first week of the holidays, whilst Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley had gone out into the front garden to admire Uncle Vernon's new company car, in very loud voices so that the rest of the street would notice it too, Harry had crept downstairs, picked the lock on the cupboard under the stairs, grabbed some of his books and hidden them in his bedroom. As long as he didn't leave spots of ink on the sheets, the Dursleys need never know that he was studying magic by night. Harry was keen to avoid trouble with his aunt and uncle at the moment, as they were already in a bad mood with him, all because he had received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one week into the school holidays. Ron Weasley, who was one of Harry's best friends at Hogwarts, came from a whole family of wizards. This meant that he knew a lot of things Harry didn't, but had never used a telephone before. Most unluckily it had been Uncle Vernon who had answered the call. Vernon Dursley speaking. Harry, who happened to be in the room at the time, froze as he heard Ron's voice answer. Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? I want to talk to Harry Potter. Ron was yelling so loudly that Uncle Vernon jumped and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm. Who is this? he roared in the direction of the mouthpiece. Who are you? Ron Weasley! Ron bellowed back, as though he and Uncle Vernon were speaking from opposite ends of a football pitch. I'm a friend of Harry's from school! Uncle Vernon's small eyes swivelled around to Harry, who was rooted to the spot. There is no Harry Potter here! he roared, now holding the receiver at arm's length, as though frightened it might explode. I don't know what school you're talking about! Never contact me again! Don't you come near my family! And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone, as if dropping a poisonous spider. The row that had followed had been one of the worst ever. How dare you give this number to people like you! Uncle Vernon had roared, spraying Harry with spit. Ron obviously realised that he'd got Harry into trouble because he hadn't called again. Harry's other best friend from Hogwarts, Hermione Granger, hadn't been in touch either. Harry suspected that Ron had warned Hermione not to call, which was a pity because Hermione, the cleverest witch in Harry's year, had muggle parents, knew perfectly well how to use a telephone, and would probably have had enough sense not to say that she went to Hogwarts. So Harry had had no word from any of his wizarding friends for five long weeks, and this summer was turning out to be almost as bad as the last one. There was just one very small improvement. After swearing that he wouldn't use her to send letters to any of his friends, Harry had been allowed to let his owl, Hedwig, out at night. Uncle Vernon had given in because of the racket Hedwig made if she was locked in her cage all the time. Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distant grunting snores of his enormous cousin, Dudley. It must be very late. Harry's eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he'd finished this essay tomorrow night. He replaced the top of the ink bottle, pulled an old pillowcase from under his bed, put the torch, a history of magic, his essay, and ink inside it, got out of bed and hid the lot under a loose floorboard under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table. It was one o'clock in the morning. Harry's stomach gave a funny jolt. He had been thirteen years old without realising it for a whole hour. Yet another unusual thing about Harry...