Bloomsbury HP 5 harry potter and the order of the phoenix

Harry Potter and the
Order of the Phoenix








Titles available in the Harry Potter series

(in reading order):
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Titles available in the Harry Potter series

(in Latin):
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

(in Welsh, Ancient Greek and Irish):
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone



Harry Potter and the
Order of the Phoenix
J. K. Rowling













All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher

First published in Great Britain in 2003
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 38 Soho Square, London, W1D 3HB
Revised Edition August 2003

Copyright © 2003 J. K. Rowling

Harry Potter, names, characters and related indicia are
copyright and trademark Warner Bros., 2000™

The moral right of the author has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available
from the British Library

ISBN 0 7475 7940 1

Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Polmont, Stirlingshire

All paper used by Bloomsbury Publishing, including that in this book,
is a natural, recyclable product made from wood grown in sustainable,
well-managed forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the
environmental regulations of the country of origin.

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

5 7 9 10 8 6

www.bloomsbury.com/harrypotter


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To Neil, Jessica and David,
who make my world magical














— CHAPTER ONE —

Dudley Demented

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and
a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive.
Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and
lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing –
for the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. Deprived
of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhab-
itants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool
houses, windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a non-
existent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a teenage boy
who was lying flat on his back in a flowerbed outside number four.
He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the
pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot
in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt
baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away
from the uppers. Harry Potter’s appearance did not endear him
to the neighbours, who were the sort of people who thought scruffi-
ness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden him-
self behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was quite
invisible to passers-by. In fact, the only way he would be spotted
was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of
the living-room window and looked straight down into the
flowerbed below.
On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his
idea of hiding here. He was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on
the hot, hard earth but, on the other hand, nobody was glaring at
him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news,
or shooting nasty questions at him, as had happened every time he
8 H
ARRY
P
OTTER



had tried sitting down in the living room to watch television with
his aunt and uncle.
Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open
window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s uncle, suddenly spoke.
‘Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he,
anyway?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Aunt Petunia, unconcerned. ‘Not in the house.’
Uncle Vernon grunted.
‘Watching the news ’ he said scathingly. ‘I’d like to know what
he’s really up to. As if a normal boy cares what’s on the news –
Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s going on; doubt he knows who the
Prime Minister is! Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about
his lot on our news –’
‘Vernon, shh!’ said Aunt Petunia. ‘The window’s open!’
‘Oh – yes – sorry, dear.’
The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit
’n’ Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs Figg, a batty cat-
loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She
was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased he
was concealed behind the bush, as Mrs Figg had recently taken to
asking him round for tea whenever she met him in the street. She
had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle
Vernon’s voice floated out of the window again.
‘Dudders out for tea?’
‘At the Polkisses’,’ said Aunt Petunia fondly. ‘He’s got so many
little friends, he’s so popular ’
Harry suppressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really
were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley. They had swal-
lowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different
member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry
knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he
and his gang spent every evening vandalising the play park, smoking
on street corners and throwing stones at passing cars and children.
Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little
Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets,
scavenging newspapers from bins along the way.
The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o’clock
D
UDLEY
D
EMENTED
9


news reached Harry’s ears and his stomach turned over. Perhaps
tonight – after a month of waiting – would be the night.
‘Record numbers of stranded holiday makers fill airports as the Spanish
baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week –’
‘Give ’em a lifelong siesta, I would,’ snarled Uncle Vernon over the
end of the newsreader’s sentence, but no matter: outside in the
flowerbed, Harry’s stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had hap-
pened, it would surely have been the first item on the news; death
and destruction were more important than stranded holidaymakers.
He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the brilliant blue
sky. Every day this summer had been the same: the tension, the
expectation, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension again
and always, growing more insistent all the time, the question
of why nothing had happened yet.
He kept listening, just in case there was some small clue, not
recognised for what it really was by the Muggles – an unexplained
disappearance, perhaps, or some strange accident but the
baggage-handlers’ strike was followed by news about the drought
in the Southeast (‘I hope he’s listening next door!’ bellowed Uncle
Vernon. ‘Him with his sprinklers on at three in the morning!’),
then a helicopter that had almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then
a famous actress’s divorce from her famous husband (‘As if we’re
interested in their sordid affairs,’ sniffed Aunt Petunia, who had
followed the case obsessively in every magazine she could lay her
bony hands on).
Harry closed his eyes against the now blazing evening sky as the
newsreader said, ‘– and finally, Bungy the budgie has found a novel way
of keeping cool this summer. Bungy, who lives at the Five Feathers in
Barnsley, has learned to water ski! Mary Dorkins went to find out more.’
Harry opened his eyes. If they had reached water-skiing budgeri-
gars, there would be nothing else worth hearing. He rolled cau-
tiously on to his front and raised himself on to his knees and
elbows, preparing to crawl out from under the window.
He had moved about two inches when several things happened
in very quick succession.
A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a gunshot;
a cat streaked out from under a parked car and flew out of sight; a
10 H
ARRY
P
OTTER



shriek, a bellowed oath and the sound of breaking china came from
the Dursleys’ living room, and as though this was the signal Harry
had been waiting for he jumped to his feet, at the same time pulling
from the waistband of his jeans a thin wooden wand as if he were
unsheathing a sword – but before he could draw himself up to full
height, the top of his head collided with the Dursleys’ open window.
The resultant crash made Aunt Petunia scream even louder.
Harry felt as though his head had been split in two. Eyes
streaming, he swayed, trying to focus on the street to spot the
source of the noise, but he had barely staggered upright when two
large purple hands reached through the open window and closed
tightly around his throat.
‘Put – it – away!’ Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry’s ear. ‘Now!
Before – anyone – sees!’
‘Get – off – me!’ Harry gasped. For a few seconds they strug-
gled, Harry pulling at his uncle’s sausage-like fingers with his left
hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wand; then,
as the pain in the top of Harry’s head gave a particularly nasty
throb, Uncle Vernon yelped and released Harry as though he had
received an electric shock. Some invisible force seemed to have
surged through his nephew, making him impossible to hold.
Panting, Harry fell forwards over the hydrangea bush, straight-
ened up and stared around. There was no sign of what had caused
the loud cracking noise, but there were several faces peering through
various nearby windows. Harry stuffed his wand hastily back into
his jeans and tried to look innocent.
‘Lovely evening!’ shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at Mrs Number
Seven opposite, who was glaring from behind her net curtains.
‘Did you hear that car backfire just now? Gave Petunia and me
quite a turn!’
He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all the
curious neighbours had disappeared from their various windows,
then the grin became a grimace of rage as he beckoned Harry back
towards him.
Harry moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop just short
of the point at which Uncle Vernon’s outstretched hands could
resume their strangling.

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