Harry felt as though he had fallen into a patch of warm mist, as if he were soaking in cooled milk.
He struggled to open his eyes, dream fragments still clinging to his eyelashes—the Burmese python in his dream had flicked its forked tongue, its scales glowing a ghostly green inside the dim glass enclosure. Just as they had been getting along splendidly, the growing clamor shattered the illusion.
After waking, Harry felt a dull ache at his temple. He instinctively raised a hand to touch it, his fingertips brushing over the uneven skin and easing the pain slightly.
Harry shook his head, flinging away the lingering images of the python and shattered glass, then fumbled for his glasses.
The laughter outside the door was like a handful of pebbles scattered across the floor, clattering against his eardrums. What could possibly be causing such a commotion?
In the living room, Uncle Vernon's pitch-black suit had been pressed as stiff as a board. As he sat upright, the flesh on his stomach stretched the buttons until they gleamed. Aunt Petunia, meanwhile, was wrapped in a flamingo-red gown, the sequins on its hem raining down with every exaggerated gesture she made.
They held a chipped camera in their hands. Its brass lens bore several cracks, and the inscription "made in AW (Arthur Weasley)" was clearly visible on its side.
They directed Dudley in circles, taking photograph after photograph.
Dudley wore a brown uniform, his fat distorting the collar. He looked like a little pig stuffed into tight clothes, spinning endlessly in front of the fireplace like a roasted suckling pig!
"Oh! Darling, your chin is too round in this one!" Aunt Petunia stood on tiptoe, her hairspray-stiffened curls nearly poking Dudley in the face. "Lift it a little higher, yes! Imagine you're