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 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?”
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… shooting stars… 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… you know… her crowd.”
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her
he'd heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn'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 bedroom window and peered down
into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as
though it were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? 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, comforting thought before he fell asleep was
that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and
Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about 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 on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after
a moment he spoke to it.