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第1章 大难不死的男孩 (beginning)
家住女贞路4号的德思礼夫妇总是得意地说他们是非常规矩的人家。拜-托，拜托了。他们从来跟神秘古怪的事不沾边，因为他们根本不相信那些邪门歪道。
弗农德思札先生在一家名叫格朗宁的公司做主管，公司生产钻机。他高大魁梧，胖得几乎连脖子都没有I，却蓄着一脸大胡子。德思礼太太是一个瘦削的金发女 人。她的脖子几乎比正常人长一倍。这样每当她花许多时间隔着篱墙引颈而望、窥探左邻右舍时，她的长脖子可就派上了大用场。德思礼夫妇有一个小儿子，名叫达 力。在他们看来，人世间没有比达力更好的孩子了。
德思丰L一家什么都不缺，但他们拥有一个秘密，他们最害怕的就是这秘密会被人发现。他们想， 一旦有人发现波特一家的事，他们会承受不住的。波持太太是德思礼太太的妹妹，不过她们已经有好几年不见面了。实际上，德思礼太太佯装自己根本没有这么个妹 妹，因为她妹妹和她那一无是处的妹夫与德思礼一家的为人处世完全不一样。一想到邻居们会说波特夫妇来到了，德思礼夫妇会吓得胆战心惊。他们知道波特也有个 儿子，只是他们从来没有见过。这孩子也是他们不与波特夫妇来往的一个很好的借口，他们不愿让达力跟这种孩子厮混。
我们的故事开始于一个晦暗、阴沉的星期二，德思礼夫妇一早醒来，窗外浓云低垂的天空并没有丝毫迹象预示这地方即将发生神秘古怪的事情。德思礼先生哼着小曲，挑出一条最不喜欢的领带戴着上班，德思礼太太高高兴兴，一直絮絮叨叨，把唧哇乱叫的达力塞到了儿童椅里。
他们谁也没留意一只黄褐色的猫头鹰丰卜扇着翅膀从窗前飞过。
八点半，德思礼先生拿起公文包，在德思礼太太面颊上亲了一下，正要亲达力，跟这个小家伙道别，可是没有亲成，小家伙正在发脾气，把麦片往墙上摔。"臭小子。"德思礼先生嘟哝了一句，咯咯笑着走出家门，坐进汽车，倒出四号车道。
在街角上，他看到了第一个异常的信号?? 一只猫在看地图。一开始，德思礼先生还没弄明白他看到了什么，于是又回过头去。只见一只花斑猫站在女贞路路口，但是没有看见地图。他到底在想些什么?很可 能是光线使他产生了错觉吧。德思礼先生眨了眨眼，盯着猫着，猫也瞪着他。当德思礼先生拐过街角继续上路的时候，他从后视镜里看看那只猫。猫这时正在读女贞 路的标牌，不，是在看标牌；猫是不会读地图或是读标牌的。德思礼先生定了定神，把猫从脑海里赶走。他开车进城，一路上想的是希望今天他能得到一大批钻机的 定单。
但快进城时，另一件事又把钻机的事从他脑海里赶走了。当他的车汇入清晨拥堵的车流时，他突然看见路边有一群穿着奇装异服的人。他们都披 着斗篷。德思礼先生最看不惯别人穿得怪模怪样，瞧年轻人的那身打扮!他猜想这大概又是一种无聊的新时尚吧。他用手指敲击着方向盘，目光落到了离他最近的一 大群怪物身上。他们正兴致勃勃，交头接耳。德思礼先生很生气，因为他发现他们中间有一对根本不年轻了，那个男的显得比他年龄还大，竟然还披着一件翡翠绿的 斗篷!真不知羞耻!接着，德思礼先生突然想到这些人大概是为什么事募捐吧，不错，就是这么回事。车流移动了，几分钟后德思礼先生来到格朗宁公司的停车场， 他的思绪又回到了钻机上。
德思礼先生在他九楼的办公室里，总是习惯背窗而坐。如果不是这样，他可能会发现这一天早上他更难把思想集中到钻机的 事情上了。他没有看见成群的猫头鹰在光天化日之下从天上飞过，可街上的人群都看到了；他们目瞪口呆，指指点点，盯着猫头鹰一只接一只从头顶上掠过。他们大 多甚至夜里都从未见过猫头鹰。德思礼先生这天早上很正常，没有受到猫头鹰的干扰。他先后对五个人大喊大叫了一遍，又打了几个重要的电话，喊的声音更响。他 的情绪很好，到吃午饭的时候，他想舒展一下筋骨，到马路对角的面包房去买一只小甜圆面包。
若不是他在面包房附近又碰到那群批斗篷的入，他早就 把他们忘了。他经过他们身边时，狠狠地瞪了他们一眼。他说不清这是为什么，只是觉得这些人让他心里别扭。这些人正嘁嘁喳喳，讲得起劲，但他连一只募捐箱也 没有看见。当他拎着装在袋里的一只大油饼往回走，经过他们身边时，他们的话断断续续飘入他的耳鼓："波特夫妇，不错，我正是听说?? "
"?? 没错，他们的儿子，哈利?? "
他突然停下脚步，恐惧万分。他回头朝窃窃私语的人群看了一眼，似乎想听他们说点什么，后来又改变了主意。
他冲到马路对面，回到办公室，厉声吩咐秘书不要打扰他，然后抓起话筒，刚要拨通家里的电话，临时又变了卦。他放下话筒，摸着胡须，琢磨起来..不，他太 愚蠢了。波特并不是一个稀有的姓，肯定有许多人姓波特，而且有儿子叫哈利。想到这里，他甚至连自己的外甥是不是 ° 哈和]都拿不定了。他甚至没见过这孩 子。说不定叫哈维，或者叫哈罗德。没有必要让太太烦心，只要一提起她妹妹，她总是心烦意乱。他并不责怪她?? 要是他自己有一个那样的妹妹呢..可不管怎么说，这群披斗篷的人..那天下午，他发现自己很难专心考虑钻机的事。五点钟他走出办公室大楼，依旧心事重重， 与站在门口的一个人撞了个满怀。
这个小老头打了个趔趄，差点儿摔倒。"对不起。”德思礼先生嘟哝说。过了几秒钟，他才发现这入披了一件紫罗兰 色斗篷。他几乎被撞倒在地，可他似乎一点儿不生气，脸上反而绽出灿烂的笑容。“您不用道歉，尊贵的先生，因为今天没有事会惹我生气!太高兴了，因为‘神秘 人'总算走了!就连像你这种麻瓜，也应该好好庆贺这大喜大庆的日子!"他说话的声音尖细刺耳，令过往的人侧目。
老头说完，搂了搂德思礼先生的腰，就走开了。
德思礼先生站在原地一动不动，仿佛生了根。他刚刚被一个完全陌生的人搂过。他还想到自己被称做“麻瓜”，不知这是什么意思。他心乱如麻，连忙朝自己的汽 车跑过去，开车回家。他希望这一切只是幻象，他从来没有幻想过什么，因为他根本不赞同幻想。当他驶入四号车道时，第一个映入眼帘的就是早上他见过的那只花 斑猫，这并没有使他的心情好转。这时猫正坐在他家花园的院墙上。他肯定这只猫和早上的是同一只：眼睛周围的纹路一模一样。
“去..去!”德思礼先生大喝道。
猫纹丝不动，只是狠狠地瞪了他一眼。这难道是一只正常的猫的行为吗?德思礼先生感到怀疑。他先让自己镇定下来，随后就进屋去了。他仍决定对太太只字不提。
德思礼太太这一天过得很好，一切正常。晚饭桌上，德思礼太太向他讲述了邻居家的母女矛盾，还说达力又学会一个新词(“绝不”)，德思礼先生也尽量表现 -3-得正常。安顿达力睡下之后，他来到起居室，听到晚间新闻的最后一段报道：“最后，据各地鸟类观察者反映，今天全国猫头鹰表现反常。通常情况下，它们 都是在夜间捕食，白天很少露面，可是今天，日出时猫头鹰就四处纷飞。专家们也无法解释猫头鹰为什么改变了它们的睡眠习惯。”新闻播音员说到这里，咧嘴一 笑。"真是太奇妙了。现在我把话筒交给吉姆麦古，问问他天气情况如何。吉姆，今天夜里还会下猫头鹰雨吗?"
"噢，泰德，"气象播音员说，"这 我可不知道，今天不仅猫头鹰表现反常。全国各地远至肯特郡、约克郡、丹地 1/ 等地的目击者都纷纷打来电话说，我们原来预报昨天有雨，结果下的不是雨丽是流 星!也许人们把本该一星期后举行的庆祝篝火之夜 2/ 晚会提前举行了，朋友们!不过我向你们保证，今晚一定有雨。”
德思礼先生坐在扶手椅里惊呆 了。英国普遍下流星雨?猫头鹰光天化日之下四处纷飞?到处都是披着斗篷的怪人?还有一些传闻，关于波特一家的传闻..德思辛L太太端着两杯茶来到起居室。 情况不妙。他应该向她透露一些。他心神不定，清了清嗓子。“唔?? 佩妮，亲爱的?? 最近有你妹妹的消息吗?”
不出所料，德思礼太太大为吃惊，也很生气。不管怎么说，他们通常都说自己没有这么个妹妹。
“没有，”她厉声说，“怎么了?”
“今天的新闻有点奇怪，”德思礼先生咕哝说，“成群的猫头鹰..流星雨..今天城里又有那么多怪模怪榉的人..”
“那又怎么样?'’德思礼太太急赤白脸地说。
“哦，我是想..说不定..这跟..你知道..她那一群人有关系..”
德思礼太太嘬起嘴唇呷了一口茶。德思礼先生不知道自己是不是该大胆地把听到“哈利”名字的事告诉她。他决定还是不要太冒失。于是他尽量漫不经心地改口说：“他们的儿子?? 他现在该有达力这么大了吧?”
“我想是吧。”德思礼太太子巴巴地说。．_“他叫什么来着?是叫霍华德吧?”“叫哈利，要我说，这是一个不讨人喜欢的普通名字。” “哦，是的。”德思礼先生说着，感到心里突然往下一沉。“不错，我也这么想。”他们上楼睡觉时，他就再也没有提到这个话题了。德思礼太太进浴室以后。德思 礼先生就轻手轻脚来到卧室窗前，看看前面的花园。那只猫还在原地，正目
1/ 肯特郡在英格兰南部。约克郡在英格兰北部。丹地是英格兰北部海港。
2/ 指每年11月5日在英国举行的庆祝篝火之夜活动。
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第1章 大难不死的男孩 (beginning)
家住女贞路4号的德思礼夫妇总是得意地说他们是非常规矩的人家。拜-托，拜托了。他们从来跟神秘古怪的事不沾边，因为他们根本不相信那些邪门歪道。
弗农德思札先生在一家名叫格朗宁的公司做主管，公司生产钻机。他高大魁梧，胖得几乎连脖子都没有I，却蓄着一脸大胡子。德思礼太太是一个瘦削的金发女 人。她的脖子几乎比正常人长一倍。这样每当她花许多时间隔着篱墙引颈而望、窥探左邻右舍时，她的长脖子可就派上了大用场。德思礼夫妇有一个小儿子，名叫达 力。在他们看来，人世间没有比达力更好的孩子了。
德思丰L一家什么都不缺，但他们拥有一个秘密，他们最害怕的就是这秘密会被人发现。他们想， 一旦有人发现波特一家的事，他们会承受不住的。波持太太是德思礼太太的妹妹，不过她们已经有好几年不见面了。实际上，德思礼太太佯装自己根本没有这么个妹 妹，因为她妹妹和她那一无是处的妹夫与德思礼一家的为人处世完全不一样。一想到邻居们会说波特夫妇来到了，德思礼夫妇会吓得胆战心惊。他们知道波特也有个 儿子，只是他们从来没有见过。这孩子也是他们不与波特夫妇来往的一个很好的借口，他们不愿让达力跟这种孩子厮混。
我们的故事开始于一个晦暗、阴沉的星期二，德思礼夫妇一早醒来，窗外浓云低垂的天空并没有丝毫迹象预示这地方即将发生神秘古怪的事情。德思礼先生哼着小曲，挑出一条最不喜欢的领带戴着上班，德思礼太太高高兴兴，一直絮絮叨叨，把唧哇乱叫的达力塞到了儿童椅里。
他们谁也没留意一只黄褐色的猫头鹰丰卜扇着翅膀从窗前飞过。
八点半，德思礼先生拿起公文包，在德思礼太太面颊上亲了一下，正要亲达力，跟这个小家伙道别，可是没有亲成，小家伙正在发脾气，把麦片往墙上摔。"臭小子。"德思礼先生嘟哝了一句，咯咯笑着走出家门，坐进汽车，倒出四号车道。
在街角上，他看到了第一个异常的信号?? 一只猫在看地图。一开始，德思礼先生还没弄明白他看到了什么，于是又回过头去。只见一只花斑猫站在女贞路路口，但是没有看见地图。他到底在想些什么?很可 能是光线使他产生了错觉吧。德思礼先生眨了眨眼，盯着猫着，猫也瞪着他。当德思礼先生拐过街角继续上路的时候，他从后视镜里看看那只猫。猫这时正在读女贞 路的标牌，不，是在看标牌；猫是不会读地图或是读标牌的。德思礼先生定了定神，把猫从脑海里赶走。他开车进城，一路上想的是希望今天他能得到一大批钻机的 定单。
但快进城时，另一件事又把钻机的事从他脑海里赶走了。当他的车汇入清晨拥堵的车流时，他突然看见路边有一群穿着奇装异服的人。他们都披 着斗篷。德思礼先生最看不惯别人穿得怪模怪样，瞧年轻人的那身打扮!他猜想这大概又是一种无聊的新时尚吧。他用手指敲击着方向盘，目光落到了离他最近的一 大群怪物身上。他们正兴致勃勃，交头接耳。德思礼先生很生气，因为他发现他们中间有一对根本不年轻了，那个男的显得比他年龄还大，竟然还披着一件翡翠绿的 斗篷!真不知羞耻!接着，德思礼先生突然想到这些人大概是为什么事募捐吧，不错，就是这么回事。车流移动了，几分钟后德思礼先生来到格朗宁公司的停车场， 他的思绪又回到了钻机上。
德思礼先生在他九楼的办公室里，总是习惯背窗而坐。如果不是这样，他可能会发现这一天早上他更难把思想集中到钻机的 事情上了。他没有看见成群的猫头鹰在光天化日之下从天上飞过，可街上的人群都看到了；他们目瞪口呆，指指点点，盯着猫头鹰一只接一只从头顶上掠过。他们大 多甚至夜里都从未见过猫头鹰。德思礼先生这天早上很正常，没有受到猫头鹰的干扰。他先后对五个人大喊大叫了一遍，又打了几个重要的电话，喊的声音更响。他 的情绪很好，到吃午饭的时候，他想舒展一下筋骨，到马路对角的面包房去买一只小甜圆面包。
若不是他在面包房附近又碰到那群批斗篷的入，他早就 把他们忘了。他经过他们身边时，狠狠地瞪了他们一眼。他说不清这是为什么，只是觉得这些人让他心里别扭。这些人正嘁嘁喳喳，讲得起劲，但他连一只募捐箱也 没有看见。当他拎着装在袋里的一只大油饼往回走，经过他们身边时，他们的话断断续续飘入他的耳鼓："波特夫妇，不错，我正是听说?? "
"?? 没错，他们的儿子，哈利?? "
他突然停下脚步，恐惧万分。他回头朝窃窃私语的人群看了一眼，似乎想听他们说点什么，后来又改变了主意。
他冲到马路对面，回到办公室，厉声吩咐秘书不要打扰他，然后抓起话筒，刚要拨通家里的电话，临时又变了卦。他放下话筒，摸着胡须，琢磨起来..不，他太 愚蠢了。波特并不是一个稀有的姓，肯定有许多人姓波特，而且有儿子叫哈利。想到这里，他甚至连自己的外甥是不是 ° 哈和]都拿不定了。他甚至没见过这孩 子。说不定叫哈维，或者叫哈罗德。没有必要让太太烦心，只要一提起她妹妹，她总是心烦意乱。他并不责怪她?? 要是他自己有一个那样的妹妹呢..可不管怎么说，这群披斗篷的人..那天下午，他发现自己很难专心考虑钻机的事。五点钟他走出办公室大楼，依旧心事重重， 与站在门口的一个人撞了个满怀。
这个小老头打了个趔趄，差点儿摔倒。"对不起。”德思礼先生嘟哝说。过了几秒钟，他才发现这入披了一件紫罗兰 色斗篷。他几乎被撞倒在地，可他似乎一点儿不生气，脸上反而绽出灿烂的笑容。“您不用道歉，尊贵的先生，因为今天没有事会惹我生气!太高兴了，因为‘神秘 人'总算走了!就连像你这种麻瓜，也应该好好庆贺这大喜大庆的日子!"他说话的声音尖细刺耳，令过往的人侧目。
老头说完，搂了搂德思礼先生的腰，就走开了。
德思礼先生站在原地一动不动，仿佛生了根。他刚刚被一个完全陌生的人搂过。他还想到自己被称做“麻瓜”，不知这是什么意思。他心乱如麻，连忙朝自己的汽 车跑过去，开车回家。他希望这一切只是幻象，他从来没有幻想过什么，因为他根本不赞同幻想。当他驶入四号车道时，第一个映入眼帘的就是早上他见过的那只花 斑猫，这并没有使他的心情好转。这时猫正坐在他家花园的院墙上。他肯定这只猫和早上的是同一只：眼睛周围的纹路一模一样。
“去..去!”德思礼先生大喝道。
猫纹丝不动，只是狠狠地瞪了他一眼。这难道是一只正常的猫的行为吗?德思礼先生感到怀疑。他先让自己镇定下来，随后就进屋去了。他仍决定对太太只字不提。
德思礼太太这一天过得很好，一切正常。晚饭桌上，德思礼太太向他讲述了邻居家的母女矛盾，还说达力又学会一个新词(“绝不”)，德思礼先生也尽量表现 -3-得正常。安顿达力睡下之后，他来到起居室，听到晚间新闻的最后一段报道：“最后，据各地鸟类观察者反映，今天全国猫头鹰表现反常。通常情况下，它们 都是在夜间捕食，白天很少露面，可是今天，日出时猫头鹰就四处纷飞。专家们也无法解释猫头鹰为什么改变了它们的睡眠习惯。”新闻播音员说到这里，咧嘴一 笑。"真是太奇妙了。现在我把话筒交给吉姆麦古，问问他天气情况如何。吉姆，今天夜里还会下猫头鹰雨吗?"
"噢，泰德，"气象播音员说，"这 我可不知道，今天不仅猫头鹰表现反常。全国各地远至肯特郡、约克郡、丹地 1/ 等地的目击者都纷纷打来电话说，我们原来预报昨天有雨，结果下的不是雨丽是流 星!也许人们把本该一星期后举行的庆祝篝火之夜 2/ 晚会提前举行了，朋友们!不过我向你们保证，今晚一定有雨。”
德思礼先生坐在扶手椅里惊呆 了。英国普遍下流星雨?猫头鹰光天化日之下四处纷飞?到处都是披着斗篷的怪人?还有一些传闻，关于波特一家的传闻..德思辛L太太端着两杯茶来到起居室。 情况不妙。他应该向她透露一些。他心神不定，清了清嗓子。“唔?? 佩妮，亲爱的?? 最近有你妹妹的消息吗?”
不出所料，德思礼太太大为吃惊，也很生气。不管怎么说，他们通常都说自己没有这么个妹妹。
“没有，”她厉声说，“怎么了?”
“今天的新闻有点奇怪，”德思礼先生咕哝说，“成群的猫头鹰..流星雨..今天城里又有那么多怪模怪榉的人..”
“那又怎么样?'’德思礼太太急赤白脸地说。
“哦，我是想..说不定..这跟..你知道..她那一群人有关系..”
德思礼太太嘬起嘴唇呷了一口茶。德思礼先生不知道自己是不是该大胆地把听到“哈利”名字的事告诉她。他决定还是不要太冒失。于是他尽量漫不经心地改口说：“他们的儿子?? 他现在该有达力这么大了吧?”
“我想是吧。”德思礼太太子巴巴地说。．_“他叫什么来着?是叫霍华德吧?”“叫哈利，要我说，这是一个不讨人喜欢的普通名字。” “哦，是的。”德思礼先生说着，感到心里突然往下一沉。“不错，我也这么想。”他们上楼睡觉时，他就再也没有提到这个话题了。德思礼太太进浴室以后。德思 礼先生就轻手轻脚来到卧室窗前，看看前面的花园。那只猫还在原地，正目
1/ 肯特郡在英格兰南部。约克郡在英格兰北部。丹地是英格兰北部海港。
2/ 指每年11月5日在英国举行的庆祝篝火之夜活动。
CHAPTER ONE
The Boy Who Lived
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, 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.
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 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.
The Boy Who Lived
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, 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.
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 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.
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