As every morning, Harry was woken by a puff of dust on the nose.
To get into the kitchen to have breakfast with his cousin Dudley was concerned always jumping up and down the stairs, so the cupboard under the stairs - Harry's room - is filled with annoying drafts and dust.
Dudley loved teasing Harry, loved to torture him, loved him even criticized by his father when he had faults, and each occasion was good to have fun at the expense of the cousin, now adopted in Dursley house for many years. And this was probably to make Dudley so accustomed to teasing, jealousy, the protection of their environment, like a wild animal that chases the intruder to turn.
In the kitchen, as usual, Harry was involved in the preparation of breakfast, with the experience of recent years had become pretty good at preparing meals from Dudley.
was Sunday. Also that morning had come into the kitchen in silence, ignored by his uncle who was reading the newspaper, from Dudley who watched cartoons on TV and Aunt Petunia that stretched out her neck like a giraffe out of the window, spying on the neighbors.
"Breakfast," said Harry. So the Dursleys sat at the table and began to eat. A Harry touched the remains of Dudley, which was always small, but had to adapt, he knew well.
"Boy, you know what to do," muttered Uncle Vernon in Harry stood up from the table and cleaning up crumbs from his whiskers biscuits.
For Harry, Sunday was cleaning day in the garden. Remove the weeds, mow the lawn, water the geraniums were the duties of his aunt on Sunday that occupied most of the day for Harry. Hated him, but again had to adapt, he knew.
After the lunch break, Harry returned to deal with weeds in the garden of the driveway. It was a tedious task - the more boring the rest of the work to the gardener - and tried not to think about fantasizing about Dursley, imagining them grappling with the disparate domestic accidents. But to attract the attention of Harry, that afternoon, there was no daydream about uncles.
While rooting the grass and collected in a basket, his eyes fell on an owl perched on the chimney of the house opposite. He had ruffled feathers and dark, and clutching a letter in its beak ...
Harry left for a moment the basket with the weeds, and crossed the driveway to look better. Yes, it was a letter! At that point, the owl flew with a rustle of wings, and after a semicircle around the chimney, landed at the feet of Harry, who was impaled near the letterbox of the neighbors. The owl snapped the beak, dropping the letter, then, with a rustle of wings, flew away, to disappear in the cloudy sky.
started to rain when Harry returned home, tired but curious about the letter, now hidden in jeans as a precaution. Harry had not yet opened, but the address was very clear: "To Mr. Harry Potter, the driveway of number four, Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey."
That was one of the most important days of Harry's life. That letter would have led to change their lives. To live. The most important day ... Finally out from under the stairs .
...
I want to dedicate this excerpt of a story (written, you can see, to commit an evening on the treadmill going) to people who do not like the fable, who believes the importance of small things. Treasures, which you can hold on forever, and make better any time worst. A "letter" that can change everything, at any time.
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