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-

fornothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Pottersarrived 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 strangeand 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. Durs-

ley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye 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 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. Durs-

ley 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 noth-

ing 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 emeraldgreen cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley

that this was probably some silly stunt – these people were obviously collec-

ting 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 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 nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morn-

ing. 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 him-

self a bun from the bakery.

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 nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morn-

ing. 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 him-

self a bun from the bakery.

AUTHOR:

HAI I AM STARTED TO WRITE HARRY POTTER......COPYRIGHT TO J.K.ROWLING......DON'T REPORT PLZ🙏🙏🙏

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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 whis-

perers 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 couldupset 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 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. Durs-

ley 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.

_______________________________________

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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 look-

ed 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. Dumble-dore 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.

“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 Profe-

ssor 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.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious

little to celebrate for eleven years.”

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hop-

ing he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have

disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really

has gone, Dumbledore?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful

for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”

“A what?”

“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of. “

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t

think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-

Who has gone –”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him

by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense – for eleven years I have

been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.”

Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking

two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep

saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of

saying Voldemort’s name.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exaspe-

rated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only

one You-Knowoh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”

“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will

never have.”

“Only because you’re too – well – noble to use them.”

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey

told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, “The

owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what

everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”

_______________________________________

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