Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive,
were proud to say that they were perfectly normal,
thank you very much. They were the last people you'd
expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings,
which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly
any neck, although he did have a very large mustache.
Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice
the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as
she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences,
spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called
Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had
a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would
discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if
anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was
Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several
years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have
a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband
were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys
shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the
Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that
the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never
even seen him. This boy was another good reason for
keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley
mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull,
gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about
the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and
mysterious things would soon be happening all over
the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out
his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped
away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase,
pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed,
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because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal
at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left
the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign
of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second,
Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked
his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing
on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight.
What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick
of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It
stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road,
he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign
that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't
read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and
put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought
of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by
something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he
couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely
dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear
people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young
people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed
his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle
of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering
excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple
of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than
he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him!
But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some
silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for
something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and
a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings
parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his
office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found
it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see
the owls swoop ing past in broad daylight, though people down
in the street did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl
after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl
even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal,
owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made
several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was
in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch
his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
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He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group
of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He
didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering
excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin.
It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag,
that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry"
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped
at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had
almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind.
He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no,
he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure
there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry.
Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry.
He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold.
There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset
at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a
sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and
when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried
that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell.
It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was
wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost
knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide
smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare,
"Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today!
Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like
yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was.
He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping
3
he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing
he saw --and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat
he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall.
He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him
a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered.
Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house.
He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner
all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley
had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally.
When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time
to catch the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the
nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls
normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight,
there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every
direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the
owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster
allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim
McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but
it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today.
Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have
been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised
yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps
people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it's not
until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."
Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all
over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in
cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...
Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea.
It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his
throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"
4
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all,
they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.
"No," she said sharply. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shootingstars...
and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."
"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.
"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... youknow... her crowd."
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley
wonderedwhether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter."
He decided hedidn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could,
"Their son --he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"
"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"
"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite
agree."
He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed.
While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the
bedroomwindow and peered down into the front garden. The cat was
still there.It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting forsomething.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with thePotters?
If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of-- well,
he didn't think he could bear it.
The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr.Dursley
lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comfortingthought
before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters wereinvolved,
there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs.Dursley.
The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about
5
them and their kind.... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could
get mixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and
turned over -- it couldn't affect them....
How very wrong he was.
Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep,
but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness.
It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly
on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver
when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls
swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared
so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out
of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall,
thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard,
which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing
long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled,
buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind
half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as
though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived
in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome.
He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did
seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly
at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of
the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him.
He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed
to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in
the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a
little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness.
Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on
the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance,
which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their
window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see
anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the
Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down