harry potter

M r. 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 fi rm called Grunnings, which which made drills. He was a big, beefy man
with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache. 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 neighbours. 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 neighbours 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, grey 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 goodbye but missed, 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 realise 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 towards
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 get-ups 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 whisper-

ing 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 car park, 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 swooping 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 night-time. 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 lunch-time, when he thought
he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the baker’s opposite.
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 lot 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 dialling his home number when he changed his mind. He
put the receiver back down and stroked his moustache, 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 realised 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 passers-by 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 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 behaviour, 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 learnt a new word (‘Shan’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 news reader 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 lot.’
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 was 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 in 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 in 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 which 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 realise 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 realise 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 had 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 in 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 towards 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.
‘Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.’
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes.
She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked
distinctly ruffled.
‘How did you know it was me?’ she asked.
‘My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.’
‘You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,’ said Professor McGonagall.
‘All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on
my way here.’
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
‘Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,’ she said impatiently. ‘You’d think they’d be a bit more
careful, but no – even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.’ She jerked
her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. ‘I heard it. Flocks of owls … shooting stars …
Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent
– I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.’
‘You can’t blame them,’ said Dumbledore gently. ‘We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.