As he moved all these things aside, he saw a long, thin package lying underneath.
"What’s that?" said Ron, looking over, a freshly unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.
Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his bedspread. Ron dropped his socks and jumped off his bed for a closer look.
"I don’t believe it," he said hoarsely.
It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. Its handle glittered as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved from the golden registration number at the top of the handle, right down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.
"Who sent it to you?" said Ron in a hushed voice.
"Look and see if there’s a card," said Harry.
Ron ripped apart the Firebolt’s wrappings.
"Nothing! Blimey, who’d spend that much on you?"
"Well," said Harry, feeling stunned, "I’m betting it wasn’t the Dursleys."